


Minutia

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Ambiguously Happy Ending, Angst, Author is angry with John, Author really is very very angry at John, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sherlock-centric, Tenderness, Trauma, Victor is wholesome, not a happy ending for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: He remembers night after night spent shivering in the dark, trying desperately to hold the pieces of his flesh together, terrified to utter a single word in case they heard him. He’d sworn to himself then that they’d never make him talk, not for anything.So no, he doesn’t have to speak. Sherlock doesn’t have to do anything. He’s done.





	1. Minutia

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't published anything in a while, but I can't let go of him just yet.  
> Minutia has been in the works for a very long time, so I hope this makes up for my absence.
> 
> This piece does not reflect well on John Watson.
> 
> EDIT 2018 -
> 
> I spent three years working on this fic. And this is the only story I have ever written, that I plan to re-write.

It would be nice if there were cobblestones; slate coloured, the small square ones that everyone romanticises. They pave the streets in lots of European cities. They look appropriately quaint. The stone gives an interesting texture, mostly rounded but uneven in places; more like pebbles really. They’re typically quite varied, with deep satisfying grooves of grout between them that you can run your fingers through.

Concrete’s not really like that. It’s blank and flat and impersonal, with no meaningful end. Ceilings, walls, floors; they’re all identical. It feels harsh and cold, not interesting to touch at all. Or to lie on. Or to stare at.

Of course, if you do stare at it, after a while the infinite _sameness_ of it starts to get under your skin.

It becomes more interesting after it gets blood on it, because then at least there’s some sort of pattern to speak of. Better to look at, but _wasteful,_ because the concrete doesn’t need it _at all_.

Water is better; at least you can drink it, but that too would be easier with grooves. Water can be hard to catch along a flat surface.

The drain breaks up the grey a bit; small, square, but not quite symmetrical. There’s a little chip towards the centre, where the brass is less dull. To the fingertip, it feels rough, but not enough to be sharp. If you tilt your head at just the right angle; it almost shines. But, as with anything, if you look at it for too long, it begins to move, and that can be unsettling.

It bothers him that the drain is only screwed down at three corners; there isn’t even a space for the fourth, that’s just how it was designed. How incredibly frustrating.

You often hear a room described as featureless. But people are lazy. No one room is ever _truly_ a blank slate; there is always data there, you just have to know how to _find_ it. Observation can be an extremely useful technique for distraction.

The door is the main feature, purely based on mass alone. Thick steel, but still fairly standard as far as doors go; floor to ceiling, rectangular, opens one way. Unimaginative. Though it does make for an interesting contrast to the drain.

It certainly draws the eye, but the scratches accumulated over time seem to have no structure or meaning.

But if you study them, really _look_ at each one closely, trace their paths with your palms, your fingernails; you might be able to see how they were formed. Each separate, but not random.

Together; they tell a story.

It doesn’t have a handle like it should, like it clearly used to; instead there is a large metal plate (271.5x110x22mm), slightly darker than the door, very robust, and _very_ inadvisable to watch.

_(Don’t look at the scratches.)_

The hinges are his favourite, the most complex component. Industrial strength, they are fastened to the concrete with four bolts each; heavy duty and rounded off. He imagines the bolts would be very difficult to dislodge, unless you have a cutting torch.

The hinges themselves are interesting because of their concept, the way they are designed to allow for physical motion. It’s quite a beautiful invention if you really think about it; the hinges create a perfect pivot point between the door and the wall that allows for an angle of rotation. When force is applied to one side of the door, the hinges create a torque effect, and the door glides open. But they also have to support the significant weight they carry.

So simple, yet so innocuously brilliant.

Avoiding boredom can be difficult. You can’t look at anything too long or too frequently or the idea will gradually lose its appeal. Twenty minutes max, and then you move on. It’s all about moderation. Variation of detail is a Very Good Thing, it keeps the mind active, healthy.

The light fixture should be the most captivating, but practically, it is not as easy to observe. High up, dull, and almost always blurry, it hurts to look at in detail. The bulb is bright enough for the contrast to be uncomfortable, but not so bright as to cast a meaningful shadow. A small yellow spark in a box.

The consistency makes it impossible to distinguish the difference between day or night, but he is grateful for it anyway. You can’t see in the dark.

The floor he probably looks at the most, mainly due to proximity. There’s a small spot in the corner kept meticulously. No sand, no dirt. It makes it easier to rest. Less rough on the face.

The importance of all this is becoming increasingly difficult to remember, as he struggles to focus on the minutia, rather than the rest. Because there _is_ more, and he is so very, very cold.

 ~

For the first few days he paced constantly, up and down, up and down until he was dizzy with it. But in a room two and a half steps by three, there’s not really a whole lot of progress to be made.

He doesn’t sit much now, or pass the time by looking; he spends a lot more time with the concrete.

He doesn’t like the hinges anymore, because the association now is not that they can move; it’s that they _do_.

It’s approximately nine degrees, sometimes lower; it’s always difficult to estimate these things.

The cold makes it hard to concentrate, and the repetition is starting to grate on his nerves. He cycles through; hinges, floor, light, walls, until there’s nothing left to see.

He’d give his life for a jumper; his soul for warm soup. His last two possessions, not counting his limbs. He’ll get that jumper soon enough; could be any day now. At least in hell he’ll be warm, and; he thinks he might even be able to bargain for some soup.

The hinges squeal and he jolts upright. His whole body screams with the effort, but he likes to be sitting when they come. Let them think he’s undefeated, even if just for a few seconds. It’s not even about pride at this point, he’ll be leaving that in this room; he just gets satisfaction from their annoyance. What little he can.

~

His room is long gone; they keep him here all the time now. The reason for the change is quite clear; sensory deprivation wasn’t working, he’s lost privacy privileges. Sleeping is not allowed, not for a moment.

It’s hard to remember now, how he ever cared about concrete. It’s a good exercise though; it kept the silence from killing him, worked as a distraction from the pain.

Pain now, is probably the only thing he _does_ care about.

~

He’s quite glad John thinks him dead. The thought comes to him in a bizarre moment of clarity, in a situation where really, he should not have been able to register anything _but_ the pain. It occurs to him anyway because it’s John, and John comes first; always first.

In situations as extreme as this, energy is important. Repressing thoughts takes a tremendous amount of effort; there are only so many things he can deny himself at one time before he stretches himself too thin.

If he doesn’t find a distraction soon, he’s afraid his mind will buckle; that he’ll tell them everything. And he must _never_ allow that to happen.

But pain does terrible things to a man. Because he _could_. The option is there. The pain will stop if he does. They’ll stop hurting him, at least for a while; all he needs to do is speak. And he can no longer trust that he won’t.

He’s going to need every scrap of focus he can find. Even if that means cannibalising parts of his mind in the process; or breaking his cardinal rule.

It’s the last thing he wants. But if doing so keeps his mouth shut, then so be it.

Only John Watson can save him now.

At first, he didn’t tell John because Moriarty’s people would kill him for it. They still might. If Sherlock could pick up a phone right now and call him, he might be dead within the hour. It’s still a perfectly serviceable reason.

Now; it probably isn’t true.

Sherlock knows that he’s dying.

John can never know. Even if by some miracle he makes it out of this place; some things are just not meant be heard.

It would _change_ them. The way it changed him.

He’s done things he can’t say. They’ve accumulated; a list of outtakes, black spots on his itinerary. The narrative is riddled with holes, and he worries that there may be too many now for the story to make sense. 

Talking won’t change what is happening to him.

If John doesn’t know he is alive, then he doesn’t know what they are doing to Sherlock’s flesh, and for that at least he can be grateful.

~

He blows the cover of six agents for a sip of water. They force vodka down his throat instead.

It was real intelligence, names only a spook would know. Their safety is now compromised. But in present company, he doubts they’ve much to worry about. Their lives don’t matter all that much to Sherlock at the moment; He’s thirsty.

Ironically, dying of dehydration turns out to save his life.

They’ve strung him up again, for the waterboarding. After, they play cards around a milk crate. It’s an easy assignment, sitting around out of the (relative) cold; drinking, watching Sherlock beg and wet his trousers. It’s made him quite popular.

Orders are barked, loud and urgent, and the rats scuttle back to their holes. Except Neck Tattoos; he stays put. He’s the strongest, and most creative of the bunch. Neck Tattoos only visits sporadically; he causes far too much damage.

He’s been chosen for a reason. They want to impress. He has a _visitor_. And he is almost certainly going to die.

Somehow, the thought still scares him.

There’s much ceremony for his entrance. Someone of significant rank then; he clearly terrifies them. Sherlock’s visitor waits until they are alone with Neck Tattoos, before he makes himself comfortable for the show.

The Stranger never says a word, and that, is a very bad sign.

His neck and shoulders seized up hours ago, so Sherlock can't see anything more than his shoes. But pace, posture, and confidence; they tell him all he needs to know.

Sherlock can recognize a professional when he sees one. 

Turns out there _are_ still worse things than dying. Whatever capacity he had left for hope; it leaves him for good.

Interest from a higher up says his cover has been blown. But how _much_ does he know? If he has access to the sort of intelligence Sherlock suspects he does, then he knows about the agents, so he knows that Sherlock is MI6. But he can’t possibly know _who_ he is, and that’s the one thing going for him.

He has no respect for their skillsets. They can hurt him, and they can kill him, but that’s all they can do. Things have changed. Because he’s remembered that he _are_ still things he cares about, that he does still have so much more to lose. Sherlock is terrified, because while he knows he’s good, this man is _better_. The others are stupid, but The Stranger?

The Stranger can _break_ him.

It starts. And until Neck Tattoos picks up the pipe; that is what he believes will happen. Up until that moment, The Stranger gives no indication of anything. But just before the swing, his breathing stutters. Why?

He can’t be too concerned for his prisoner’s ongoing survival, or he would have stopped this already. But physiology doesn’t lie; The Stranger did not _want_ that pipe to hit him.

The pain blurs his vision and he gasps for air. But he’s missed something. And that forces him to concentrate. But he hasn’t been able to think clearly in _weeks_.

Neck Tattoos proves how much of an oaf he really is, when all it takes is a few whispered words and he’s off to go beat his wife instead. He actually dares to leave without so much as glancing at The Stranger, which is monumentally stupid.

He’ll probably never leave the base alive, and isn’t that a nice thought? This is turning out to be quite a good day really, all things considered.

When the door bangs shut, the man stands, straightening his coat.

“So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.”

He speaks, and though he’s wearing their language as a mask; his accent is unmistakably _not_ Serbian. Quite a terrible impression at that. What is going on here?

“You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”

_He knows._

Sherlock tries to raise his head, to look this enemy in the eye. But he fails, instead only managing to exacerbate the cramping in his neck; the position too much of a strain on his body.

Are these mind games? It could be a bluff, trying to get Sherlock to unwittingly confess. It’s possible. But Sherlock doesn’t think so. He seems to already know exactly who he is. If this man has been tracking him, as he claims, then he has done possibly for some time. They may already be dead.

If he does one thing before he dies, it will be to rip the jugular vein clear out of The Strangers self-important throat. He doesn’t care if he has to do it with his teeth.

Or rather; he could spit on his shoes, but he’s so dehydrated that he doubts he could manage even that.

He’s coming closer, and there’s not a damn thing Sherlock can do to stop him.

The fist in his hair in not nearly as cruel as you’d have thought in the circumstances; he’s not twisting; he just wants to see his face. For confirmation.

And when he speaks again in his natural tongue, it takes a full minute for Sherlock to believe it’s him. He’d be less surprised to see James Moriarty risen from the dead.

But Mycroft? He never let himself believe he’d come.

“It’s me Sherlock.” Mycroft sounds anxious.

“Get me out of here.”

To his surprise, Mycroft doesn’t delegate the job to the extraction team who will of course be on their way. Instead he does something incredibly stupid; trying to take Sherlock’s weight as he unlocks one of the cuffs himself.

The last thing he remembers after that is the sounds of his screaming as the fracture in his right humerus finally breaks through the skin.

~

The vehicle jolts and bumps along the track, someone beside him barking for it to go faster.

He’s wearing a _jumper_ , and someone is dressing him in thick wool socks, so he really _must_ be dead. But not properly dead, or at least he hopes not. Because if you can still feel pain after death, then there truly is no liberty to be had.

“Sherlock…” Someone carefully, carefully tries to rouse him, for what he suspects is not the first time.

The only parts of him that don’t hurt are his left foot and his right arm, which means it’s likely he’ll lose them. Seems they did decide to take his limbs after all. He should probably care more about that than he does.

His brother calls his name with increasing urgency, but he hasn’t the energy to speak. More than that, he doesn’t _want_ to. He never wants to speak to anyone ever again.

He opens his left eye to let him know he hears him, and gratefully slips under.

~

“You have to speak sometime you know.”

His brother looks like he hasn’t left the hospital in weeks, though he must have done at some point, because his suit has changed. Sherlock has been here for a while now. If he had to guess, he’d say about two weeks. It’s too soon to tell.

He doesn’t know what date it is, or when his last birthday was. His brother tells him it’s been nearly two years.

It’s probably Germany, if the accents are any indication, but he doesn’t particularly care to find out.

The doctors and nurses keep him regularly updated as to his condition. He barely hears a word. Summary; torture, surgery, infection, ventilator, skin grafts, more surgery, and probably more to come. More than two weeks then. But there is morphine, and lots of it, which is really all he cares about.

Initially they worried that it was brain damage rendering him mute, so they did lots of complicated and probably very expensive tests. They’ve concluded by now, presumably, that his voice works perfectly well, he’s just not using it.

After a while the staff simply accept it, and stop talking to him like a slightly dim child, which is nice. His brother just won’t shut up.

He remembers night after night spent shivering in the dark, trying desperately to hold the pieces of his flesh together, terrified to utter a single word in case they heard him. He’d sworn to himself then that they’d never make him talk, not for _anything_.

So no, he doesn’t have to speak. Sherlock doesn’t _have_ to do anything. He’s done.

~

“Sherlock, I’m worried about you.”

How nice for him.

“Don’t you want to know about John?”

Sherlock is so _sick_ of people using his friends lives as a _bargaining chip_. He’s not an idiot. John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson are all perfectly fine. If they weren’t, they would be having an entirely different conversation several weeks from now, when Sherlock is ‘strong enough to take the loss.' 

The answer is no. He doesn’t want to hear about John. He wants warmth, morphine, and silence.

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say.

Now his lungs are stable and the chest tube has come out, he is deemed fit for a kidney transplant. Apparently one of them had a run in with a lead pipe. Throw it in the heap with his spleen and his dignity, and leave him the hell alone.

Everyone seems so determined to keep putting holes in him.

This type of cell is much warmer; it hurts less, and there is so much more to look at. The walls, floors and ceilings still all look pretty much the same, but they’re clean and white; they’re safe.

Having a bed is nice, even though the sheets smell like disinfectant and he keeps getting blood all over them. It’s soft, and he knows from experience that hospital beds are supposed to be thin and lumpy, but this one isn’t. Concrete doesn’t have pillows, it has a small spot clear of sand.

There are lots of machines with lots of lights and buttons which make lots of very annoying noises. He can’t decide which noise he hates the most, the one when his pulse oximeter falls off, or when the bag for the feeding tube runs empty.

Probably the tube; not even because of the noise itself, just by association. He cried and fought when they forced it down his throat, even barely conscious, Mycroft had to shake him just to stop Sherlock trying to pull it out. He thought perhaps he’d rather die, but he’s still undecided on that point.

He thinks about it a lot though, death. He’d been so terrified of dying there, in that place, in so much pain. Instinctual self-preservation is a reflex; to fight for life. But without that hostility, the desperation of chaos is gone.

Dying here would be very different to the death he was faced with. It’s safe here, it’s warm; it wouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t want to die, but he doesn’t feel the same urgency for life.

Change of room, change of perspective. Sherlock isn’t afraid anymore.

Having a window is nice. He can only see down to the courtyard of the campus, but there are _trees_ , and grass; people standing around smoking or hobbling down the path. It rains a lot, and there aren’t many leaves to speak of, so it must be winter, but he doesn’t feel the cold.

He observes the people below as they pass and wonders if he’s going to have to use a cane.

There’s a special squishy chair in the corner for Mycroft, though he doesn’t see why they don’t just give him an ordinary one, he’s uncomfortable anyway.

He cries a lot; for no reason. He doesn’t even feel particularly sad, he just cries and cries.

It doesn’t faze the nurses too much, they must be used to these things; but the first time _Mycroft_ walks in to find him crying, it seems to matter a whole lot more. Sherlock could tell him he’s okay, but he doesn’t.

Mycroft keeps talking to him, but he never asks for a response anymore, which Sherlock appreciates more than he could say.

Instead, one day Mycroft brings with him a chess board; beautifully crafted from marble and stone. They play, and Mycroft usually wins but not always, and no one gets cross. After he leaves, Sherlock holds the black queen for hours, thinks of slate cobble stones, and cries until dawn. 

Mycroft visits every day at exactly 4pm, and he stays until 6. The British Government must not have all that much on if they can spare him. His brother hasn’t taken this much time off in nine years. Sherlock finds himself looking forward to his visits. He’s always loved chess, and Mycroft is the only one who can beat him. Silent, eloquent communication.

He’s also probably the only one who can even begin to understand.

They don’t always play. Most of the time Sherlock can’t concentrate on anything. Sometimes Mycroft will work, or he’ll just talk. Sometimes they sit in silence as Sherlock cries.

Sometimes the pain is unbearable. That’s when he cries for a reason, and Mycroft will stroke his hair and remind him that it’s temporary. On the bad days he’ll hold him. He thinks without him he’d go mad.

Sherlock loves Mycroft. He always has, even though he’s a rubbish big brother. He might be trying to make up for that now, and it’s nice to see him making the effort. Sherlock forgave him years ago, and it’s hard now, to remember why he never told him.

He’s improving; enough that he can sit on the end of the bed, in the chair by the window, and on days that he’s stronger; he can make it to the bathroom unassisted.  Sleeping on his back for extended periods remains a problem.

When the weather is good, Mycroft will wheel him to the courtyard, and they’ll play chess until Sherlock is too tired to move the pieces. Even if it’s after six.

The first time they go out he does nothing but cry. The sun is weak, but he can still feel the warmth on his skin. The sky seems endless; there’s so much _space_.

~

Sherlock _hates_ physio.

Walking takes time to work up to. He’s rebuilding muscles you should be able to take for granted, ones you never think about. Until they’re gone. When deprived of nourishment to that extent, the body begins to eat itself, and once the fat is depleted, desperate measures are called for.  His mind was not the only thing cannibalised.

Sherlock has always lived in a world of extremes. But this time is _bad_. He hardly recognises himself.

Putting the weight back on, and getting that strength back feels harder than it was when he was dying of malnourishment. When they come to take the feeding tube out, he starts crying so violently that they almost can’t do it. He’s never been so grateful for anything.

When he doesn’t eat, they threaten to put it back.

It works. He eats everything they give him, even when he knows it’s only going to make him sick. His stomach is constricted, and almost half of what he eats is rejected. But he’ll quite happily throw up every day for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes.

If hell exists, it’s room L212.

Ten minutes of lifting one leg off the floor should not reduce you to tears. Resistance exercises make him shake and fold. He struggles with weights a twelve-year-old could juggle. His doctors are patient but uncompromising; they push him hard. And while Sherlock is grateful for their tenacity, he hates them with a vengeance.

They like him because he doesn’t complain.

Therapy days are never good ones. They always schedule sessions in the morning, when patients are stronger, so when he comes back, he’s too busy hating himself to do anything at all.

Mycroft still comes regardless, even when Sherlock is too exhausted to look at him. Sometimes when his mind is filled with static and air turns to ash in his mouth; the nurses will call him, and Mycroft will show up, even if it’s the middle of the night; just to get him through it.

Sherlock isn’t sure that it helps, but it’s a nice gesture.

He can’t raise his arms above shoulder height quite yet, especially not with the cast, but he’s finally making his own urine again, and he did end up keeping the left foot after all, so there’s something to be thankful for.

He never says a word. Perhaps that is why he is on such good terms with the nursing staff.

~

The first time Mycroft’s barber comes in, it is a disaster.

He can’t wait to get this rat’s nest off his shoulders. But the second the shears come anywhere near his head; he sees lightning. There’s screaming and white noise and violence. Objects fly, and he winds up on the floor.

No one is hurt but himself, but still, he never sees that first barber again.

Sherlock’s back is bleeding _everywhere_ , tools scattered around him.

No one wants to approach him. They all thought he’d been doing so much better. It’s a reminder to everyone just quite why he doesn’t speak.

The only noise in the room is the beeping of machines, and the sound his blood makes as it drips from the chair.

Sherlock is shocked by his violence. He’d no idea he would react that way, never meant to hurt anyone. The discovery of this reflex leads him to a terrible self-diagnosis. He is not just wounded. He’s traumatised.

Sherlock doesn’t stop crying for _days_.

The nurses treat him differently after that, right back to where they started. It’s subtle, but the incident stays in the back of their heads; kind, but cautious. Lovable, but damaged, may lash out if provoked; their resident torture victim. For him at least, the rapport is slowly slipping away.

The concern, is that this may not be an isolated incident. You can’t control a reflex. It’s unpredictable; and when it comes…there’s no telling what he is capable of. Is he a danger to other people, the people he _cares_ about?

After everything he’s done; the answer might possibly be yes.

~

There are lots of ways for a person to be broken; physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He is losing his mind. It’s slipping away.

The numbness isn’t something that has worn off exactly, he just seems to have found another _way_ to be numb, another level. He’s no longer in shock in any case.

He’s still living in the bubble the world beat him into. Before, he was just going through his treatments, focussing on his injuries, still operating on that higher plain of numbness. But ever since the incident with the barber, the world doesn’t look the same.

Now he knows why he cries.

Without the minutia to distract him, he’s remembering how it _felt_ on those nights. Not the pain or the cold exactly, but what it was like to be a _human being_ inside that skull. He’d blocked it out, trying to delay the crush, on the basis that maybe; just _maybe_ , he might survive to feel it later.

~

Sorrow.

It’s a short word. Just two syllables to encompass something that is so very specific, and so infinitely more complex.

More than just one feeling, sorrow is a conditional state of being; the by-product of compounding any number of negative emotional states and circumstances. All definitions aside, he never really thought about what sorrow _is_ precisely.

In a way, words are similar to the smaller details in a room; we see them every day, we use them. But we very rarely stop to think deeper; contemplate what that word actually _means_.

He knows what they mean now; what it means to feel them. He’s living it. The sorrow is with him every day; his resting state. He’s always in distress.

Despair and fear are the other two big ones; fear is not quite as pressing anymore, but despair? It comes in waves. Despair fills his bubble with lead and sinks him so deep beneath the surface that he knows he will never get back up. 

He dreams about raw fingernails clawing against concrete, and desperate scratches carved into solid steel. He knows he has to feel these things to heal, but he can’t seem to predict when that room will come back to him.

When it does, there’s no pulling out of it, he has to just wait for it to pass, for the sorrow to settle back in. Sometimes the despair lasts for hours, sometimes; it’s days. It makes him feel so lost.

~

There’s talk of discharging him.

The nurses are more comfortable now he’s looking less like he might just go ahead and die the second their backs are turned.

He’d been _that_ ICU patient; the sickly one in the corner that no one wants to be assigned to, frustrating his doctors with his inability to heal on schedule. But now his KPI’s are improving steadily, getting better at reaching milestones at the correct times.

They’re satisfied with his progress, and think that he is well enough to continue treatment as an outpatient, which is good. But Sherlock has lost everything. How do you come back from that?

They drop cheerful hints, implying his freedom might be imminent with thinly disguised excitement in their voices. As if they’re giving him a gift, waiting for him to light up like a beacon, grateful for such good news. His refusal to celebrate ruins everyone’s day.

His last night, sleep won’t come. He stands in the bathroom; worrying the night nurses from dusk until dawn.

Rehabilitated or not; the man he sees in the mirror has been pushed too far. There’s something about the eyes, it’s hard to say what, but they scare him.

He reaches out a hand to the man’s cheek, and leaves two fingerprints on the glass.

~

The morning of his discharge flows around him like a stream.

He sits on the end of the bed in the clothes that were given to him, and watches life happen as if to someone else. Bodies rush in and out of the room, handing him things, taking things off him, speaking at rather than to. He feels like a doll.

He signs endless pieces of coloured paper, and half listens as the Very Serious People lecture him about Very Serious Things. They ask dozens of Important Questions that it is Very Important he answer. He nods blandly until they give up, push a Very Excessive amount of pills into his hands, and send him on his way.

He sleepwalks out of the hospital and into the frigid Landstuhl air.

Mycroft makes a point of not looking at Sherlock in the car, though he is clearly itching to. Sherlock just sits there holding his plastic bag of pills. He’s not sure how he ever thought Mycroft unreadable.

“Where?” Sherlock asks, clear as a bell.

Mycroft jumps so badly he bumps his head against the side of the door; and then immediately pretends it didn’t happen.

“Home, Sherlock. We’re going home.”

Just like that.

~

Sherlock has been running for two years, knowing that he couldn’t stop. He gave his life in dedication to this cause. Because there were other lives in the balance, ones that for Sherlock; were indispensable.

Dismantling Moriarty’s network was a very messy and complicated business. Sherlock had been right in the middle of it all, just trying to get by with each day. When you’re lost in the chaos on the ground, it can be hard to remember to take a step back.

Endings can be such elusive things; we often don’t see them even when they are staring us in the face. This was the problem with Sherlock’s commitment, because when could he know that it was over, _really_ _over_? How could he ever be sure if it were safe?

How do you choose, when that one decision could be a death sentence?

They can never know, even now. There will always be the risk. 

In that mindframe, absolute certainty does not exist, the risk is _always_ too great. There would always be one more man to chase; one more tenuous connection to hunt down, one more threat to destroy. With no clear end in sight, he would have had to make the conscious choice to step down and walk away.

Sherlock may not have known it, but he was never coming home. The responsibility was too much. He would have simply gone on running, too afraid to stop. He needed someone to tell him it was over, to give him _permission_ to let go; because it was a call he just could not make.

Monitoring Sherlock had been futile.

MI6 have been wanting this for a _very_ long time, ever since Sherlock first came onto their radar at age nine. They were desperate to have him. And he can see why. Sherlock’s abilities make for an invaluable asset. But there was just one small problem with that. There is absolutely no conceivable way that Sherlock Holmes could _ever_ qualify for selection. His profile would never make it past the first screening process. 

To allow it would be an act of madness.

The entrance criteria demand a candidate must undergo thousands of layers of security checks, as well as rigorous, physical, emotional, and psychological evaluations. And of all these requirements; Sherlock does not meet a single one.

Their _own protocols_ dictate for his immediate exclusion. His is the sort of application that would result in him being a level three ‘Watch and Act;’ identifying him as a person of interest. The vetting processes are strict; and there are absolutely _no_ exceptions. 

That hasn’t prevented them from trying to recruit him on numerous occasions.

It wasn’t long before he dropped off the map completely. England sat back with her feet up, and watched as a criminal empire fell to its knees; a one man mission that puts world powers to shame.

Sherlock’s anger was unstoppable.

A task such as this is unprecedented. Alone; it’s suicide.

Mycroft counted the days passing, watched as Sherlock’s exile stretched out, months threatening to turn into years. And still no word.

He’d known it’d been too long.

Realistically, Sherlock was dead. He was gone. It was time to accept that and move on. But no matter the statistics; Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Thinking that because this was _Sherlock_ it would be somehow different. Sherlock could survive _anything_. Textbook denial.

He spent two Christmases not knowing if he would ever see his brother again, but grieving him all the same.

It isn’t until two years later, when intel comes screaming in from Serbia saying that everything is going to shit, that anyone started caring about what was happening to Sherlock Holmes.

When they finally _did_ get to him, Mycroft feared Sherlock’s mind was already lost.

Again he underestimated him.

Sherlock refused to let them break him. But the damage is harrowing.

~

“Brother.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He _never_ responds. He refuses to speak.

Seeing his brother this way is uncomfortable, it frightens him. He’s not generally prone to fits of anxiety, it doesn’t suit him.

Impenetrable would be a more accurate description. Just a half a millimetre short of unsurpassable.

He sighs.

Sherlock is the half millimetre. The only person who even comes close to Mycroft’s level of intellect. He is _also_ the only thing encountered to date he has never been able to control. One singular uncontrolled variable in his neat, orderly world.

God knows he tried to help him.

Aggravating as this is, one can’t really help but respect his tenacity.

But stubbornness alone does not make strength, not without discipline. Messy and chaotic, Sherlock lacks any form of it. But while he may not condone his choice of lifestyle, he knows his brother’s mind, and he has always understood why.

The difference between them is chemical; a state which he long concluded is not possible to overcome. Control, for his brother, is not something he will ever reach.

Where Mycroft’s genius empowers, Sherlock’s destabilises. He’s one giant, walking self-destruct button. Exactly the type of person you do _not_ want having access to top level security clearance.

Or indeed a gun. His mania has highs, and it has devastating lows. He’d have shot himself years ago; just because he was bored.

Emotions wage war inside his head. All his life, Mycroft has watched him suffer for it. One day he will die by it, Mycroft only prays it not be by his own hand.

The day they met Mycroft imagined he saw a brain like his own; sharp senses, a brilliant mind. So much raw potential. He remembers thinking that perhaps he was not alone in this world after all.

He’d known all along that fieldwork would kill his brother; that throwing his mind out there into all that chaos could only end in disaster. Sherlock Holmes against planet Earth.

Fratricide, or close enough.

~

The doctors tell him it will take time, that Sherlock will come to speak on his own. They clearly do not know how stubborn he is.

It does take time for Mycroft to adjust _his_ way of thinking. The muteness is simply the most obvious expression of Sherlock’s trauma. Focussing on that, he acknowledges is his coping strategy; looking for something he can fix.

Mycroft should know better. He cannot make Sherlock speak; you cannot _make_ Sherlock do _anything_.

Sherlock’s mind is in disarray, he has been held for _weeks_. There are not words for what they did to him. Mycroft _cannot_ expect him to be what he was; he must instead now accept what he _is_ , and find a way to move forward.

The chess was a stroke of genius; a way to interact on Sherlock’s terms. To play is comfortingly familiar; through the moves Mycroft recognises his brother, the strategies he uses, his thought patterns. He plays the same way he always has. He _is_ still in there.

But Sherlock has been deeply traumatised. There are moments where he loses all touch with reality, regressing back to the moments of his capture. The flashbacks are violent and confronting, but the depressions he falls into are far more disturbing.

The physical truth is that Sherlock is a mess. He has gaping sores, wounds festered with infection. At first, he is bedridden and covered in tubes, too weak to sit up. Post-surgical procedure means he is unable to wash properly. He is unable to eat, urinate, or defecate.

Nutrition is force-fed to him, via a tube down his nasal passage and into his stomach. The discomfort of the tube affects Sherlock so badly it hurts to watch. The indignity is killing him.

Mycroft stands at his bedside, stares at his skin, and has to force himself to accept that this is _Sherlock’s_ back, not some strangers. This is happening to _Sherlock_. Those will be Sherlock’s scars. This is Sherlock’s pain. And it’s not going to go away.

He makes progress and then slides back again and again. His organs fail, the wounds become infected, and he is rushed into emergency surgery. In the first few days they nearly lose him half a dozen times. Just when they dare to think he might pull through, a pneumothorax has him on a ventilator, and his wounds enter into sepsis.

He has a stroke scare on day six, and is put into an induced coma. He stays that was for just over three weeks.

Some of the hospital staff said it was the worst they’d ever seen. No one could have anticipated that they would be here now. No one even expected that he’d make it.

There are still days when even Mycroft cannot reach him.

Despite all that, Sherlock is upright and breathing. He walks out of the hospital under his own steam, when he should have been wheeled out in a bag. He is quite possibly the luckiest man alive.

_‘Where?’_

Hearing his voice for the first time in two years, erases all those sleepless nights, and even takes a dent out of those two very wretched Christmases.

Sherlock doesn’t say another word after that. Mycroft half wonders if his mind was playing tricks on him in the car.

He takes Sherlock home, and wonders what the hell they are going to do with all this mess. He can’t even tell if Sherlock is pleased to be back.

~

Sherlock stays with Mycroft for ten days before he decides he’s had enough of being coddled. He needs to be in his own home, with his own things. Maybe then life will feel real again.

Mrs Hudson very conveniently wins tickets to a five-day cruise through South East Asia, and her flight coincidentally falls on the exact day Sherlock is poised to move back in. Time to settle in; no explanations necessary.

He wonders if she finds it odd; miraculously winning first prize to a competition she didn’t enter, especially one that never existed in the first place.

She’ll think it a mistake, but then again; she’s Mrs Hudson, so as long as she gets a free holiday out of it, why should she care?

It takes under an hour to smuggle Sherlock, and half a box full of his possessions (mostly of the chemical variety) to 221 Baker Street, and reinstate him in the flat. More than half that time is taken up by Sherlock fighting with the stairs. There can be no doubt about the victor.

The flat is clean, and exactly as he left it, except of course for the fact that it’s vacant. John Watson hasn’t lived here in more than a year. He’d expect to have found this upsetting.

He stands in the middle of his sitting room, just looking.

He hadn’t thought to remember how it smelt, or how the air tasted on him tongue. It’s the minutia again; the sort of things you don’t register when you live in a space every day.

He appreciates it so much more now.

He’s crying again, just like in the courtyard at the hospital; not because there _is_ space, but because it is _his_ ; somewhere he finally belongs.

He falls asleep on the couch, tears still streaming down his face.

~

In the morning, he showers in his own bathroom, he puts on his own clothes; and he makes tea in his own kitchen, with his own mug. He almost feels like a human being again.

He finishes his tea, washes, dries, and puts away his cup. Sherlock looks at the kitchen around him, down the hallway, and to the sitting room beyond. And just like that he’s lost again.

He never thought he’d get this far.

Home, he’d hoped to look back and hardly believe the last two years happened. It works the other way instead. Baker Street became the past. A fantasy of his imagination.

This is the dream, but he still expects to wake back into the nightmare.

Sherlock stares into space for a while, then goes to hunt for his computer. He finds it placed on his carefully made bed; his coat, scarf and gloves all laid out next to it, with a horrific sense of finality about them. Mycroft’s people have obviously been in to clean and change the sheets, but they were clinical about it, leaving everything as they found it. Someone else did this.

He almost vomits all over the floor.

Taking the computer and retreating back to his chair, he opens it up and waits for it to turn on. But it’s password protected. After several minutes of failed attempts, and half as long again waiting until he’s allowed to try again, he finally gets it. Another tiny humiliation to his name.

Logged in, he opens up the browser and stares at the word Google until his eyes cross. Checking his email would be a good place to start, that’s the first thing normal people do, isn’t it? Hunt for the pointless validation of an unread message? He goes through the same dance with the password as before; and regrets it.

There are 4,736 unread messages in his inbox. It ran out of space for accepting them. He didn’t know that was even possible. His junk folder is terrifying; he erases the whole thing without opening it. Just deleting them makes his computer freeze twice.

He skims though the previews.

It’s all hate mail. Every one. People he doesn’t even know abusing him without mercy from behind their keyboards. Some of them are short, others rant on and on. He could fill six novels with them and still have a few to spare.

They’re glad he killed himself; the world is better off with him dead; they hope he gets burnt and molested in hell. Who sends angry emails to a dead man? A lot of people apparently.

He’s shaken. Their words shouldn’t mean anything to him but they do. He fought hard. But London doesn’t _want_ him back; everyone thinks he’s nothing more than a monster.

It’s too much.

He slides the computer between a stack of books where he can’t see it, throws the battery unceremoniously into the rubbish.

The rest of the day he spends curled up on the sofa with a blanket. He stares at the cushions for a while, before drifting into a restless sleep. He wakes himself crying; he forgot to take his medication. Every inch of him hurts so much he can barely see to find the bag.

The next three days are much the same.

Going home was supposed to be the win; and he’s not sure he _wants_ it. Any of this. Anyone to know him, to see him, talk to him.

 _He_ doesn’t want to see _them_.

He’s dreading Mrs Hudson’s return. She’s going to have questions. But he’s only said about six words in as many weeks, and at this point he can barely string a coherent thought together; he doesn’t know that he can manage a sentence.

Moving out to escape the confrontation is tempting. He seriously considers it. Right now; no one _knows_ ; and if no one knows he’s here, then no one can ask him to talk. There’s no pressure, no shouting. He needs time, space. Sherlock doesn’t want to run from home. It feels safe here, and he’s starting to be afraid that nowhere else will.

~

In the hospital it was never a problem; sleep was medicated to perfection. Even at Mycroft’s there was always a healthy supply of sedatives on hand. He’s home now, and it’s a different story. His plastic bag is not endless.

As a rule, he tries not to take them, but often finds himself with little choice.

For the most part Sherlock dreams about what he did to people; the ways he killed them, how they struggled, what they _looked like_ after he was finished with them. But he also sees himself doing what he did _not_ do; hurting people in ways that never happened, worse ways. Often it’s the people he saved who suffer by him. He watches himself pulverise the face of Gregory Lestrade until is it unrecognisable. Three nights in a row.

How could he dare to look him in the eyes after that?

Many are Serbia, what they did, what they _tried_ to do. All things that they _could_ have done, but didn’t; what Neck Tattoos _really_ wanted from him. Some nights, it’s John who does it.

It’s frightening to see what your mind can do.

Some of the nightmares are just _weird_ ; they’re not even necessarily related to the past two years, they’re just generally horrifying.  

He’s been mauled by a shark, alone on the ocean, floundering in various degrees of disfigurement; watching it come at him again and again from all angles. He’s fallen down the stairs on repeat, and no matter what he can’t stop it from happening. He lands face first, breaking his teeth into _splinters_. Others are just fever dreams of nonsense and sound.

Some he doesn’t remember, but he still feels every one. When he can’t bear the thought, he’ll give in and take the Temazepam. He’s not sure he forgives himself even that.

~

Faking his death will never be a regret. But more and more, he is beginning to wonder if his mistake; was in making it a suicide.

Before, these thoughts would not be allowed. The waters are dangerous here, but he doesn't swim for the shore. This is _After_. Anything goes.

Would it have been possible to frame it as murder? Moriarty hurling him to his death. Perhaps without the phone call; his goodbye.

Sherlock can’t _not_ think about anything.

The problem now, as he sees it; is that he lost the _option_. A choice he might never have made, but one that should be his alone. 

Now that door is closed to him. It's concerning how much that bothers him.

You can only take your own life once.

~

The door slams downstairs, and he jolts awake; _you have to be upright_!  For a full twenty-seven seconds he’s back in that room.

It’s just Mrs Hudson. All the wind goes out of him and he slumps, but his heart is still racing; he’s given himself head rush.

And then he remembers. Does Mrs Hudson know he’s here? His brother failed to mention that detail; it’s quite possible she doesn’t even know that he’s alive. The fact that she hasn’t come to see him already practically confirms it. What does he do?

He could leave.

Maybe go down stairs, make her tea or something. He should have gotten her a gift to say sorry, but it’s too late now. All he has to offer her are his (prohibited) cigarettes, and somehow, he doesn’t think she’ll appreciate the gesture. He curses himself for not thinking to buy flowers.

But he can’t very well just waltz down the stairs and ambush her; she thinks he’s _dead_ for christsake. God what if he gives her a heart attack?

He could still leave.

He could just wait for her to come up, but then why would she? For all she knows the flat is still abandoned. Maybe she won’t come up, maybe she won’t notice. He just has to be very quiet. She might think that flat is haunted he thinks, if somewhat hysterically; before he realises that it is.

He’s not thinking straight. That’s ridiculous; he can’t just hide in the flat like a stowaway, what happens when he needs to flush the toilet or turns on the taps? Mrs Hudson may be old but she has freakish bat-like hearing, and she’s not an idiot; he probably couldn’t even sneeze without her finding out.

It’s cowardice, and panic, but God, how he does not want to do this.

Emotionally he’s a wreck, and physically…

He knows how bad it looks, and he doesn’t want to frighten her; she shouldn’t have to worry, not after all he’s done.

What if he panics at some point, has one of his little _episodes_? He could seriously hurt her. He stares at the doorway, and is desperate to bolt.

He hears her moving around downstairs. She comes out of her flat and he stops breathing.

At one point she pauses, and he waits, frozen, brain screaming for oxygen. Oblivious to the anxiety she is causing, Mrs Hudson simply collects the rest of her bags from the hallway, and goes back in.

He holds his breath for another four seconds after the door is shut, and almost passes out. His lungs are still fucked.

It’s while he’s still gasping for air on the sofa that he realises his mistake. He’s been staring at it for so long that he didn’t look for what he _wasn’t_ seeing; the door. The door is _open_. Even a floor below; from that angle, he knows it’s possible. He shoots to his feet like lightning to close it, ignoring the fire sweeping down his back, praying that she didn’t notice.

He only makes three strides before the world begins to blur sickeningly, and his hearing fades to a whine. He should have waited, given his brain a chance to soak up the extra oxygen, but hindsight is only useful with a view.

Sherlock feels himself begin to fall, and throws out his left arm to catch himself as his knees take most of the impact. He doesn’t lose consciousness entirely, but his awareness shrinks to the sound of his gasps, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

“ _Oh!”_

He looks up in alarm to find Mrs Hudson in the doorway. Only it’s not Mrs Hudson. It’s Molly Hooper. He scrambles to sit up. She stares at him, eyes wide and frightened, he stares back; equally terrified.

He opens his mouth to speak but panics and closes it. _Don’t talk!_ He waits, and tries again but no sound comes out. He clears his throat roughly, and forces himself to get past it.

“Hello,” he rasps with as much dignity as he can manage.

“Sherlock? Oh my god, you’re _back_.” Her hand flies to her mouth, and the knuckles on the other are sheet-white between the pleats in her skirt.

His brain stutters; he wasn’t expecting _this._

“Your…your brother told me Mrs Hudson was away…he asked me to house sit.”

And there it is.

He should know better than to trust at face value. Mycroft’s interference never comes without an ulterior motive. There’s always a catch. Giving Sherlock a reprieve in sending Mrs Hudson away, only to substitute her for someone he feels is better suited for Sherlock’s ‘needs.’

“Why did he have to lie? He knows I would have come, I’ve been worried sick-” She cuts herself off, and he assumes it’s because she’s realised she’s talking mostly to herself, but then she is, isn’t she? He’s said one word.

“Sherlock where have you been?”

“I don’t…”

He hates the term awkward silence, but this is unfair.

“Is it over? I mean, is it safe now?”

_God, I hope so._

The words never make it out, so he nods twice, jerkily, and can’t look at her.

It suddenly hits him how _tired_ he is. He tries to stand, but his back spasms in protest and he groans, groping for the coffee table. Her hand hovers at his arm as he straightens, face suddenly so much closer.

He almost manages not to flinch from her touch.

She doesn’t need to say anything, he can see the worry in her eyes.

“Sorry.”

He wonders what she had to do, what she had to say, what lies she told for him. He knows what it was like for _him_ , but Molly had to see them every day; comfort them, commiserate with their grief, and not once let it slip.

“Will you…just a little longer.”

He _needs_ her to stay silent.

His voice is not very good. The words are pretty stuttering, and each one tastes like bile.

“You’re not staying, are you?” There are tears in her eyes, “Please don’t…”

“I am, I just-.”

Molly nods, and he knows she understands. The world really does not give her enough credit.

“You need time.”

She leaves, and he hides behind his chair.

~

Mrs Hudson has decided to extend her holiday. It’s good news.

Selfish and thoughtless it might be, but he’d never really contemplated that she might have visitors. It’s the first knock on the door since he moved in. He hears it, and reaches for a weapon that isn’t there.

Molly decided to stay in 221A as planned, and he keeps the door firmly shut. They don’t speak, and he can’t sleep knowing that she’s here.

It hadn’t occurred to him either, that she might just _answer it_. He races to the door of the flat, peering through the tiniest sliver.

That voice is _paralysing_ , because of course; it had to be him. And Sherlock absolutely cannot do this, perhaps not ever. His mind is already cracking under pressure as it is. One millimetre at a time, he pushes the door flush, chest so tight he can hardly breathe. Reluctantly he forgoes the lock; noise would draw attention.

Moving through the flat is almost impossible to do on the old floorboards without making a sound. He creeps through as quickly as he dares; avoiding the infamous parts, and shuffling on those he doesn’t trust.

He sweeps through, collecting every scrap of evidence that might even hint to his existence, including the rubbish. He pulls the sheets from the bed, and climbs right out the window.

He sits on the fire escape in the freezing cold; clutching the trash bag. It’s close to bursting, straining against the entire contents of the fridge. Milk is trickling down his leg. An orange rolls off and crashes onto Mrs Hudson’s bins.

His madness is justified with the sound of voices. Molly’s is strained. John has insisted on looking at the flat. This is it. They’ll find him, they _must_.

He wants to die, for hell to swallow him up; to bargain for his soup.

In complete hysterics, his mind obsessively searches for something he missed. Did he remember to pick up the loose pill from under the table, the book tucked between the cushions of the sofa? He’s furious at himself for not sitting further along the walkway.

John leaves. And Sherlock must too.

He was wrong. It’s not safe here anymore. He needs to run, to hide, to escape from Sherlock Holmes.

Stuffing a handful of pills into his pocket, he leaves everything he owns right there on the fire-escape, mixed in with apple cores and left-over ravioli; and runs down the stairs.

Maybe it’s forever, maybe not. All he knows is that he wants out.

By the time Molly makes it back up the stairs; Sherlock is gone.

 


	2. Playing Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can’t help but think that maybe something wasn’t right

 

When John leaves Baker Street; he’s in a good mood. Usually visiting Mrs Hudson is…not a chore, but it doesn’t leave him feeling any better. Because it’s never _her_ he’s thinking about; that house is haunted.

Seeing Molly again was great, despite the tension. She spent the whole visit fretting, concerned how being in the flat again might affect him. Just stepping through the door had her at her wits end. He wishes she wouldn’t worry so much.

He’s proven it now; he knows he can do it. Making a point to look in every room was a test to himself, and the results? Y’know, they look pretty damn good too. The nostalgia of 221B doesn’t hurt the way it would before. Memories that are fond don’t leave him crying.

In the aftermath, survival alone was the best he could do. Two years later, still standing; John can finally say his name out loud;

“Sherlock.”

Smiling at his victory, he thinks he’s earned a beer.

~

An hour later, he’s still not weeping, but he can’t help but think that maybe something wasn’t right. It takes him a while to figure out what it is.

Money is the problem. Mrs Hudson doesn’t have much. The only time she gets out of the city is for her sister, or when someone gives her a free holiday; it’s the only way she can afford it.

Molly is alone downstairs in a very old, very draughty building. So why was the heating on full blast? 221B was toasty warm, even his old room was comfortable.

That heating is shit. It takes hours to warm up, and that much power would propel the bills into the stratosphere.

Molly can’t _not_ know, it’s the first thing Mrs Hudson complains about to literally _anyone_. It will bankrupt the woman. What is she playing at?

He asks himself; what did he see? The place was clean, beds unmade, cupboards empty. No one is living there. Molly would not waste hundreds of pounds on a ghost, she’s the most careful person he knows. So it’s still a big fat mystery then, he never was any good at those. He picks up only the stupid bits; like the bloody temperature.

He’s only had a few, and beer is the perfect combination of warmth and mischief. He grabs his coat; time to play detective. 

Along the street, he tries to act normally, and to be honest he feels like he’s doing a good job; which of course means that he isn’t. He speeds up a bit past the house, just in case he’s spotted, and ducks into the alley.

It takes more effort than he’d like to admit, scaling the wall into Mrs H’s sad little back garden. Looking around, he pretends he has the slightest idea of what he’s looking for. Twenty minutes later, and he’s getting cold faster than the scent.

Sitting on the pavement, he glares at the weeds, feeling like a complete twat.

The weather is mocking him, the eaves dripping on his shoulders; not a cloud in sight. And then out of fucking nowhere; a banana peel falls on his head. Great. Very funny.

He sighs and looks up, half expecting another one to follow. It doesn’t, but the first one must have been the lynch-pin, because half a second later; and it’s raining trash. He stalks off, trying to squint up, confused as fuck. Because really, if you’re going to illegally dump something, picking a first story fire-escape isn’t exactly the smartest option. There is literally a skip just over the wall.

Poking around a bit with his foot, John stays carefully out of the drop zone. It’s not all rubbish, there’s random shit all mixed in with it. He pulls out a novel, soggy from rain and god knows what else.

Retreated to the light to examine the evidence, he realises that he’s read it. He’s not a great reader, but the author is one of his favourites; the man writes a damn good mystery. The one John owned was signed, along with a few dubious Sherlock-related stains.

John opens it. It’s _his_. The exact copy; stains and all. It’s been missing for years.

Now he’s certain something is going on here. There’s loads more, but it takes a while to figure out how to get to them.

Clothes, duvets, electronics, food and more. It’s everything you might own; abandoned in the rain to rot. There’s too much to do a proper inventory, but the electronics are apple, and the clothes mostly jeans, hoodies and pants.

The sheets are what give it away; 1500 thread count, designed for a posh person who gets cold easily. They’re also covered in broken glass, and; they reek of _cologne_.

Sherlock Holmes.

~

John falls right off the fire-escape and breaks three knuckles. Fuelled by anger, he ignores the screaming in his ankle; and marches up to the back door. He won’t stop pounding until it opens, and if it doesn’t, he’ll bloody kick it down himself.

_Bastard!_

Molly peeks her head out. He’s shouting at her so fast she can’t decipher the words, brandishing Sherlock’s torn sheets like a madman.

Molly bursts into tears, but she doesn’t confirm or deny. Loyal to a fucking fault.

John steps round her, dragging mud or whatever else behind him with the expensive cloth. His hand is clenched around it, and somehow, he can’t seem to let go.

She tries to herd him into Mrs Hudson’s sitting room, but he’s not having any of it. Up in 221B, he plants his arse and _stares_. The armchair feels exactly as it always has, but he’s barely calm enough to notice it.

Speaking only gives your opponent power, silence is far more dangerous. It’s the little things really. It’s his best intimidating stare, and she clearly is. Her hands fiddle, and she’s crying softly the whole time, but she doesn’t break.

Apologising would mean she did something wrong. It demands an explanation. He certainly knows the truth by now, and crying is only proving his point. Tears are involuntary; they’re not a confession. Molly knows that the cat is out of the bag, but she’s smart, and braver than he’d credited her for.

She won’t say it. Can’t confirm a word. Because she promised.

While he respects that she won’t break an oath, it’s unbelievable that she would dare keep this from him. Being furious is probably not going to help. That too is involuntary.

“Where is he Molly?”

She shakes her head and only cries harder. But denial is not a bloody option any longer! This is some serious shit. He _knows_ damnit, the game is over.

“He was here, but he’s not now.”

Molly just keeps crying.

“No Dr Watson, he is not.”

They both start. For someone with a head so big, Mycroft can be disturbingly stealthy when he wants to. He might almost be as angry as John.

“And now that you have run him out of his home, we may never find him.”

“Oh, he’s good at disappearing, is he?” John always prided himself on his sarcasm; “If only he were more committed to that whole dying lark. ‘Cause apparently that’s what this is to him, a big fucking joke!”

“Don’t say that!” Molly’s gone straight from mute to shouting in a single second, but her voice squeaks; “You can’t, you just can’t.”

Mycroft cuts in before John has the chance to lose it, speaking to Molly as if he’s not there.

“Have you any idea where he could have gone?”

Molly shakes her head, distraught.

“What, like _you_ can’t find him? Give me a break.”

This is madness. His evening had been set; a couple of pints, maybe some tea and a book, then off to bed. Instead he broke into Mrs Hudson’s garden, fell off a fire-escape covered in garbage, all while his dead best friend runs loose around the city. Now he’s shouting at the head of the British intelligence and a timid pathologist who watches glee with her cats.

You couldn’t make that shit up, you just couldn’t.

Well at least his instincts are still on form. This bloody house, with its bloody heating. He never should have come back here. If he hadn’t, maybe none of this would have happened; Sherlock would have just stayed fucking dead.

“No,” Mycroft states, as if nothing at all strange is happening; “He’s far too good for that now.”

~

In a bland sort of suburb, a man does his shopping. The thought of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson never once crosses his mind.

He’s conventionally attractive he knows, but it doesn’t actually seem to help that much on the dating front. You have to be interesting for that. Online is something he’s considered, but half-heartedly. Real life presents more of a challenge to him than most; his gaydar is utterly shite.

Wandering the isles, he smiles politely at his fellow shoppers, then drops his eyes. He can’t find the bloody batteries, but he’ll never stop to ask for help. The staff have other things to deal with.

Perhaps he should get a cat.

~

The _plan_ is for John to ask the homeless network, because apparently that’s the only way to track him down. It’s a shit plan, and not anything like John has in mind. His plan is a much better one; it involves his warm bed and sleep.

“Why the fuck do you need me to do it?”

“They trust you John, they know he’s your friend.” Molly’s eyes are pleading.

“I’m not his bloody friend!” He rounds on Mycroft, “This is your mess; clean it up yourself.”

Until now, he’s said relatively little, but Mycroft’s not known to miss the final word. He’s a manipulative bastard on a level reached only by a Holmes, and when he opens his mouth, there’s not a doubt in his mind he’ll get exactly what he wants.

Twenty minutes later and John is swearing under his breath, but even spitting fire wouldn’t be enough to warm him up. It’s fucking minus fifty or some shit, and he’s under a filthy bridge, glaring at the Thames. His ankle throbs in protest.

No one will talk to him. Not a single peep.

When the police feel particularly cruel, they’ll try and move homeless people on. It very rarely works. Maybe if they tried asking for Sherlock Holmes they’d have more luck. He hasn’t even been told to piss off.

“You gotta light mate?”

The guy is scruffy, and has scars all over his face, but he’s clean shaven and doesn’t smell. He may be skinny, but he doesn’t look homeless to John. The doctor in him says heroin, but it could be anything really in these parts. 

“No, I haven’t got a bloody light. And I don’t want drugs either.”

Turning his back now is potentially a very dumb move, but right now John couldn’t care less. He’s almost hoping for a fight. He’ll throw him in the bloody river.

Instead of going away, the idiot stands next to him, looking out over the water. Cheeky bastard lights a smoke.

“Good. That shit’s expensive. Bad for ya doc.”

So much for being discrete, and fuck Mycroft’s plan, they know damn well who he is, and even if they did know where Sherlock’s hiding, they don’t seem to be very interested in sharing.

“Take your own advice then,” John mutters under his breath.

“Heard you was looking for Sig.”

John scoffs.

“Yeah right, and you’ve seen him; for two hundred quid. Fuck off.”

Doesn’t seem to put him off.

“I ain’t supposed to tell you, Sig don’t wanna be found. But you’ve gotta.”

John turns to look at him, suspicious as hell.

“Why?”

He’s looking around, ostentatiously like he doesn’t want to be seen as snitching, but he might just as well be about to nick John’s wallet and leg it into the street.

“Cause he don’t look that good, and man you’ve been wandering about all night in this shit tryna find him. You ain’t one of them tryna cut his throat, and there ain’t no gun to your head.”

Yet again, Mycroft was right. This kid might know how to get to Sherlock.

“What’s it to you?” He plays tough, but he can’t hide his interest now.

“’E saved my life, didn’t he? Some cunt was tryna stab me for the clothes off me back and he-”

“Yeah right, I don’t care. Do you know where he is or not?”

Just like that there’s a piece of paper shoved at his chest, and the guy is on his way.

“What do I owe you?” John calls after him.

He just keeps walking but John swears he hears his answer almost lost in the wind.

“Nothin’ mate. Maybe Sig’s life.”

On the note there’s an address, scrawled in faint pencil; just a cab ride away.

~

He doesn’t call Mycroft, but he can’t go home. Storming in on Molly, demanding to see him; that was in the heat of the moment. John’s head is cool now, and so are his feet; quite literally fucking freezing.

Has he thought about what he’d say seeing Sherlock again? The answer is an earth shattering; sort of. Talking to him is a given, he’s spent hours on that, but the context of him rising from the dead after two years never really occurred.

The thing is; he believed it. Watched it. Lived it. Sherlock _looked_ dead, he _was dead_. Denial wasn’t the problem for him, he’s a doctor; dead is dead. Death _was_ the problem.

John’s fantasies weren’t about Sherlock coming back, they were that he never died in the first place.

Reality has chosen just a little bit of both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After season three, I was not impressed with John. After season four, I'm not quite sure who he is.


	3. Cup of Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain doesn’t ever have to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A re-imagination of Victor Trevor

It’s a bit late for a knock on the door, or to be awake really, especially on a weeknight. No one is _that_ desperate for a cup of sugar, and even the Jehovah’s Witness have to sleep. He can feel himself tutting internally. His psychologist says he’s too accommodating, but what’s the point of answering rudeness with more of the same?

He goes anyway.

It’s been over ten years since he’s seen him; he was late to the funeral. But Will must have missed the invitation entirely, because it’s two years after the fact, and he’s standing at Victor’s doorstep; six feet above ground.

He looks _awful_.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He doesn’t know why it’s the first thing he says, perhaps it’s the insomnia, or maybe he’s just trying to punish him.

“Please don’t.”

It doesn’t seem fair that he’s calling the shots, but Will always did get to do what he wanted. It’s cold, so he lets him in. He knows it’s an excuse; he always would have, even if he lived in a shoebox. But he doesn’t say that.

He doesn’t say how desperately he’s missed him.

It’s warm inside, but Will looks freezing, so he fixes them some tea, and curls back up in his chair, just watching.

Coming back from the kitchen, he would have expected to find him pacing. He’s not, though he looks like he wants to. Nervous energy losing out to exhaustion. He’s fighting just to stay standing. Victor tries very hard not to think of the phrase ‘dead on his feet.’

To say he’s not himself would be presumptuous, given that technically now, he barely knows him. But people never change all that much, not fundamentally. And even at his worst, Will never acted like this. Turns out no one is unbreakable. What a terrifying thought.

“Your tea’s getting cold.”

Will sits and they drink in silence. Halfway through he seems to forget he’s even holding the cup. His eyes are so far away.

Now normally when someone comes back from the dead, if there is such a thing, and shows up on your doorstep, he imagines there’d be shouting, or crying, but at least an explanation of sorts.

And he wants one, _needs_ one, or at least a discussion. Maybe if he were someone else he’d demand it, but if he’s anything he’s perceptive, especially about this particular man. He learned from the best after all.

As a general rule, Victor is not the biggest fan of surprises. He needs a day or two to overthink. But Will pulls out another side of him, always has. Now the biggest surprise here is himself. This moment is something he’s recreated a million times in his head, a dream he didn’t _want_ to want. A million ways he would react; slamming the door in his face, screaming, falling to his knees, kisses in the snow.

Quiet dignity is not something he would have given himself credit for. He’s not even angry.

Or he’s just in shock.

Will is in no condition to explain. Physically he looks worse than he did when they parted, something Victor had assumed to be rock bottom. Mentally, it’s impossible to know the specifics, all Victor knows is how to recognise the signs of overstimulation, to see a mind pushed too far. He can’t compound on that.

Before he can overthink, he just does it, pulling Will as close as possible and clinging to him. The collarbone against his cheek digs in; Will is scrawny, and probably weighs less than a housecat, but it’s still the best hug he’s had in a decade.

He closes his eyes against Will’s neck and breathes him in. They part too soon.

“Come to bed Will.”

Will’s eyes flick up with just the tiniest hint of alarm, his mind instantly following footprints of the past. It stings, but it’s less of a leap than it is a small step. It’s also the first time he’s looked at Victor directly, even if just for a few seconds.

It only makes him worry all the more.

“I want to go to sleep. And you need to.”

He hopes honesty is the only promise in his eyes.

Will is out in seconds, which means it could be _days_ since he last slept. Victor tries to follow, but his mind is still stuck. Insomnia is stubborn, and apparently life-changing revelations are no exception.

Will’s body next to him is surreal, but uncertainty prevents his arms from reaching out. Fear that it’s not wanted, that touching crosses an invisible line. So, Victor makes himself as quiet and small as possible, desperate not to wake him.

At first the idea of Will seeking him out, Victor of all people, it just didn’t make sense. But as he lies awake, brain ticking it over, he figures that maybe that’s the point. No one would think to find him here, not even big brother.

The thought that he’s being used is definitely there, but he doesn’t necessarily have to see it as a bad thing. Will came to his home a refugee; the very least he can do is offer sanctuary.

He can’t see any malice there, but even if he did, retaliation’s not his style, he’s not the type to take revenge, and never advantage. If Will needs him; let him take everything. As sleep begins to catch up with him, he only hopes that Will, or Sherlock, or whatever he’s calling himself now; is here to stay.

No one ever said he wasn’t a foolish man.

~

In the morning, it’s still early, but the sheets are cool. If it were anyone else, of course he’d think it a dream, but Victor knows his smell, how it tastes on his tongue. It would be ridiculous to say that he recognises his imprint, his creases in the pillow, but no one’s around to laugh, so he’ll claim it all the same.

It hits Victor that he’s gone.

It’s not the first time Will has left him, but that only makes it hurt that much harder. Old pain is no longer a distant memory. Just a few hours together, and Victor’s heart is breaking yet again.

He tries not to cry as he’s taking a piss, because his body remembers Will too, and he’s already halfway to hard. So, he just stands there, unable to shake that wrong, dirty feeling; willing it to go away and leave him be.

Showered, dressed, and already feeling stupid, he decides to look over some drafts; maybe that will distract him for a of couple hours. He feels stupider still to find Will sitting on the sofa, face buried in his hands.

For a moment, Victor hovers; they’ve barely said a word since he arrived. Once upon a time he might have known exactly how to help him. But there’s also been far too many times when he couldn’t.

You can’t save a man who doesn’t think it possible. Victor’s going to have to change his mind.

But Will’s a new person, quite literally. Since Uni he’s built himself up, made a name for himself, fame and fortune; a whole different life, a complete persona. Now that’s gone too.

He shifts and Will’s eyes turn fiery; he’s standing, fists clenched at his sides before Victor knows what’s happening.

“Uh…good morning?”

The dial turns down again at dizzying speeds with a murmured apology. Victor has to admit, he was frightened. The calm remains despite it, who would have guessed.

None of it really matters though, does it? Will, hiding his face from the world on Victor’s tatty sofa, it’s odd, but that one image, it changes perspectives. Curiosity is selfish. All the explanations in the world won’t fix this. He doesn’t need them, not in this moment.

They could be awkward, distant, afraid to feel the hurt. Fuck that. He joins him instead.

Relief so strong it makes him dizzy. Something irreplaceable was not lost for good; just missing. It doesn’t even matter what they are. William Sherlock Scott Holmes is breathing, and honestly; how could he care about anything else?

Next to him, Will’s head is immediately on his arm. Eggshells were never a problem before; why start now?

Lying on the couch, Will clings to his chest. Victor wraps him up as the rain pelts outside. He thinks of him on the street alone, and is glad he wore the warmest hoodie he owns. Nothing could be safer.

Whatever demons hide behind his eyes, they’re something that will perhaps never leave him. The regular ones, they come out, and they’re ugly. But he thinks the worse ones are less of a monster, and more like a weed. They’re tangled in there; you can pull out bits and pieces, but you can never reach every root.

The strands run deep, wrapped around the grey matter of a beautiful mind.

It’s only conjecture; he’s never had monsters like Will, and he doesn’t know how to fight them, but if he holds on long enough, he might just dull the screams.

The idea of cuddling on the couch all day is both under, and over rated. It’s warm, intimate, comforting. The relaxed weight on your chest such a special feeling. There’s also technicalities; the need to pee, to eat, numbness of limbs, and of course; boredom. The entire world knows Will’s thoughts on that.

It hasn’t made an appearance so far, and Victor gets halfway to serious concern before he catches himself, because really; it is what it is. Of course he’s concerned, it’s a chasm away from the Will he knew, but this is what’s happening now. He can only work with what he has.

Pain doesn’t ever have to make sense.

‘Victor’ is Will’s word of choice. It’s almost all he says. But Victor loves this man, god help him. Now, Victor is better at self-denial than almost anyone; ever. But Will is special, and not only through the eyes of an overbearing mother. All bias aside; he’s irreplaceable. That pull is even more than _he_ could deny.

So no; he doesn’t need words, or sex, or reciprocation of any kind.

It’s pathetic, and he’s proud of it.

Victor shuffles around the house in his thickest socks the entire day. Avoiding work, half-heartedly cleaning; he gets pretty much nothing done.

You could almost forget he’s there, that’s how little he says. Will stays deeps with himself, and it’s not normal. He moves with the weight of the world on his shoulders, barely holding himself up. Eyes track Victor from the sofa most of the day; he’s wrapped up in the covers before the sun is even set. And it’s winter.

With every time Will jumps, every time he just gravitates towards Victor with honest to god _need_ for comfort, he wonders; does he even _want_ to know?

Something terrible happened to this man.

On the second night he feels it, and later; he sees them in the flesh. Time has left its marks.

Victor is not a violent man, nor a brave one. He’s the type of person who, if conscripted, would be the first to die; the skittish one who manages to shoot himself in the head, completely by accident.

He can’t stomach it, so the idea of torture sickens him to the core. He simply cannot grasp how anyone could _do_ that to another living creature. The scars on Will’s skin, there aren’t words for that pain. Bad enough that it’s not even cruel; it’s barbaric. He wants to cry just thinking about it.

Too late, his eyes are streaming, and Will won’t look at him.

The lie in bed the next night, and Victor takes a leap:

“What do you feel right now? In this moment.”

Will shivers, his hair tickling Victor’s armpit. He can feel Will’s mind deciding, he has three options; silence, a lie, or the truth. Victor wonders if he will even know the difference.

“Safe.”

It’s exactly what Victor wanted to hear, and he’s certain he would have thought it the lie; if Will hadn’t started to cry. His sobs sound like a release. Safe. Maybe he hadn’t realised he was. Does he even remember what it means?

“With me? Always.”

Sentiment. Will may hate it, and it may be uncomfortable, but for _him_? Victor Trevor has so much.

Three words. Cliché to say it, but yes, _those_ three particularly. He won’t say them. He doesn’t want to ruin it. No pressure, no expectations; just safety. Will is not here forever.

~

Observation was always something Will was annoyingly good at, and to be fair, Victor’s not awful himself. The separation between them, is that Victor picks up things about people, and for Will, logic always comes first; the practical things.

So Victor was focussing on him, the state he’s in, trying to figure out how to support whatever he is feeling. It took him until the second day to see what was missing; everything else. Will passed out in the clothes he was wearing, and the second night he slept naked. But it wasn’t just preference; Will doesn’t _have_ any clothes.

The pockets of his trousers are empty, except for one chess piece; the black queen.

No bag, no toiletries, not even a phone. All he has is a wallet full of cash; no cards, no ID, no scraps of paper. Only notes. He literally has _nothing_.

How did Will even get here without a phone?

The air changes. Will is standing behind him. Not deliberately sneaking, he just moves unbelievably quietly. He keeps doing it, and every time Victor almost jumps out of his skin. Instinct turned habit.

Victor offers, and Will takes his hand without question, trailing behind him up the hall. They undress and step into the shower.

Will stands under the spray, face turned right into the hot water as Victor washes his hair. That’s something he’s never understood; the face thing. He’s tried it a few times, as if it will make him enjoy the shower more. Maybe he just thinks it will make him look enigmatic. It doesn’t. It’s an unpleasant sensation, the water too close, too much pressure. His eyes sting uncomfortably, and there’s water in his ears.

Will’s eyes aren’t red; he enjoys the power of the spray. Modelling agencies would pay thousands.

Gently tilting his head in and out of the water; Victor runs his fingers over Will’s scalp, cups his skull beneath his palms, covers his eyes to stop the suds from stinging during the rinse. Shampoo, condition; twist and diffuse.

Will sighs softly, and keeps his eyes shut.

The innocence of this moment is a rare thing in life.  He watches the water run clear down his nape, and imagines some might think it odd. Victor thinks it’s just beautiful.

He washes Will’s body gently but thoroughly, running the cloth slowly down his arms and across his chest. Working the soap into a lather, he imagines he’s washing away the pain. He tries not to hesitate before he gets to his genitals, but it doesn’t seem to bother Will in the slightest. He still flinches a little at Victor’s palm on his back.

With every touch, he only finds more.

If they switched places, Will could probably pinpoint exactly how each one came to be. Victor isn’t Will, and the minute details evade him; but even he can tell a gunshot wound when he sees it. As for the others; he can only guess.

Will’s skin is so beautiful, but oh, how it has suffered.

Emotional pain is harder to understand. Resorting to physical demonstrations is the best he can offer, at least until Will is ready to talk. But healing is a tricky process; when he _is_ ready, there’s no guarantee that Victor will be the one to hear. It’s a difficult thought.

The level of trust continues to surprise him. Will isn’t one to rely on others, and his trust isn’t something you earn easily. Or lose as it turns out.

Motives can always be exposing, and he’d rather Will not ask his. The bathing was for the intimacy, and for the support. But also, because he’s heard that trauma often makes people feel unclean, a sweat that won’t wash off.

He regrets that. In his head, he’s assuming things. It’s probably wrong anyway, the idea probably never even occurred. Presumption makes him a fool. You can’t place Will in a box, and that will never change.

Treating someone differently just for hurting; it’s something he _deserves_ to hate himself for.

Sometimes he can’t help it, despite how he tries. Is overcompensating for normal the same insult as the lie?

Then again, there’s not a single thing about this that’s normal. Technically he’s harbouring a fugitive. _Is_ he a fugitive? Has Will actually done anything that justifies arrest? Would they do it, take him away if they knew?

Granted, he’s not very familiar with the law, but faking one’s death is probably a bit more than just frowned upon. Surely a pardon in the supreme court means something, but under a media microscope, it would be hard to turn a blind eye.

He keeps expecting Mycroft to figure it out. Maybe it’s just paranoia, but two Holmes’ in one week is a lot to ask.

Will used to make a game of losing his tail; he learnt the names of his ‘minders,’ and how to escape them. Learnt how to avoid every camera in the city, just out of spite. They say there’s one for every 14 people, so it’s quite a feat. He’d do it with his eyes closed now, Victor is certain of it.

He’s assuming Mycroft knows. Nothing has been said explicitly about the need for secrecy, but it’s obvious he’s gone to ground.

Then again, not much has been said at all.

~

Leaving the flat is not very high on the priority list. Honestly, the idea of Will going out makes him nervous. Victor is worried sick about his safety, about those who might be hunting him; monsters that would pluck him from the street.

For the possibility that he might never come back.

His lack of bravery aside, he likes to believe he’d die to keep them from hurting him.

Here Will feels safe, and in Victor’s home he’s confident it’s true. He’ll hide him here indefinitely he knows. Will won’t have to speak, or be responsible for anything he can’t handle. If the least he can do is protect him from the screeches and flash photography, he’ll make the place a fortress.

There’s no way to know how long Will plans to stay, it’s possible neither does Will. Victor wants to ask him, but he’s afraid it will sound too much like ‘get out.’

Even with the empty eyes and broken body, Will is still brilliant as ever.

Once; it slips out. He’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s certainly not what he sees when he looks at him. He calls him Sherlock, just out of the blue.

Will is scrolling through something on Victor’s computer, and it takes him a while to register that Victor is talking to him.

He smiles, and Victor has never understood the difference between rueful and sad.

It dies fast.

“No one has called me that in a very long time. I didn’t think they ever would.”

‘Ever’ is a long time not to hear your own name. Victor hopes he meant not to reclaim it, rather than for it to be stolen from him. They say a name weighs 21 grams.

Technically the quote is soul, and it’s a load of bollock anyway. It doesn’t matter, the implication of the two are the same. A name is what we are.

He never was very good at analogies, but he prefers implications to saying it out loud. It’s not denial, or avoidance as his psychologist like to suggest, he just prefers not to dwell on the subject. Life is more important.

He turns his thoughts back on topic.

“You needed to reinvent yourself.” He gets a hum in reply. “Do you prefer it?”

Will turns away.

“It sounds wrong in your voice.”

“Okay.”

That’s it for the day’s conversation, but it’s significant, which counts for something.

~

It’s 4am and Victor is cold. Again. He lies on his back, screws his eyes shut, and still, he knows Will is not next to him.

The last place he thinks to look is the second bedroom. No matter how many contractors he calls out to look, it’s always freezing. Trust Will to find the most horrible spot in the flat. He once told Victor his mind only works when he’s miserable. They were a lot younger then.

The open window makes it colder still.

Will always hated being cold.

“My landlord would kill me if he caught me smoking indoors.”

Will only takes another drag, and blows it neatly into the night. Just once could he not do everything perfectly?

“You don’t have a landlord. You’re not smoking.”

“I own the flat, not the building.”

Victor still can’t find it in him to be cross. He makes himself uncomfortable at the foot of the bed, and when Will offers him a smoke, he takes it.

Watching Will’s jawline from the floor, he wishes he were that graceful. They’re big windows, and it’s a narrow sill. If someone startled him like that he’d have fallen clean off the edge.

Not Will. Not even a flinch. Poised as cleanly as a dancer, he could be in the middle of a photoshoot. Without looking, Will had known he’d be there before Victor ever thought to be.

In some ways now, he’s terrifying.

Cautiously lighting it, he knows he’d never have dared alone. It takes him five times just to spark the flame. Victor never really learnt how to break the rules. He misses that side of life, the mischief they got up to. Will was the only person who dared him to live.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?”

His gaze never leaves the city beneath him, and Victor’s arse grows cold waiting for a response. He wishes Will would come down from there.

“I’m thinking,” he says slowly, “about slate cobblestones.”

While Victor knows that cobblestones are somehow important here, all it means to him is a drunken night out in Paris, and the imprints they left on his face.

“I like them,” Victor muses, because he must say something, and it can’t be ‘ _are you okay?_ ’

“But they’re not very comfortable.” He laughs.

Conventional and condescending as it may be, Victor wishes he’d gone with the question. Now of course he doesn’t need to. Because inexplicably, that comment is what sets him off. Will propels himself from the window sill and smashes his fist right into the doorframe.

“Will!”

Victor jumps to his feet and stands uselessly as Will shakes with grief. He’s surely broken his hand.

Abruptly, Will realises what he’s doing, and can’t seem to bear the thought that he’s done it in Victor’s home. He’s shaking his head, and without another word; striding out the door. Victor instantly give chase.

“Will no,” Victor pleads with his back, pushing himself off the walls trying to keep up, “please don’t do this.”

“I’ll get out, I promise. I’ll go, I won’t come back.”

He believes it, and it’s the very last thing he wants.

Victor catches up just in time, slamming himself in front of the door, letterbox jabbing him in the back. It’s a new level of desperate, but if Will goes now, the whole world might crumble.

“Victor I’m- Coming here...I shouldn’t have done this to you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Will finally meets his eyes; he doesn’t want to go, but he’s already decided that he must.

Victor isn’t afraid of Will’s violence. Or rather, he’s terrified of it, but only because while Will has never, _would never_ touch him; he always hurts himself. And in this state, the last thing he needs is to be alone.

“Victor, who I am, it’s toxic to you.”

“You’re not always right.” His voice is a whisper and he knows he’s already crying.

Victor is not particularly good at most things, except maybe architecture. Drawings don’t need words, or difficult conversations. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s not the _person_ who is toxic; it’s the drugs. The only person Will ever poisoned was himself.

Being gentle doesn’t fool him, because while he may mean it; Will wants his guard down, only to slip out the door. It works anyway. Will is a lot stronger than him, or most people, even now, when he needs to be. He takes Victor by the waist and carefully extracts him from the door, wriggling and crying.

“You can’t fix me.” He says it so softly.

They must both look awful, standing here crying their eyes out, both wanting the same thing, and determined to get it, just in polar opposite ways.

Victor only ever wanted to protect him from himself.

Will gets the door open, but he doesn’t shake Victor off his arm. Not yet.

“I’m not trying to! Can’t you see that? I don’t care what ways you’re broken Will, or if you never speak another word in your life. I don’t need to _know_ damn it! I only need you.”

“I can’t protect you if I don’t trust myself not to break you in half.”

He could, it’s true. But they’ve worked out their limits. Victor knows not to touch him if he goes rigid in the night. He’s not the type to slam doors, but he knows not to anyway, and not once has he pushed. Will can be dangerous, and it can be involuntary, but then anyone could, given the right circumstances.

And the circumstances are shit.

Other people go through things that are terrible, things that change them; Will is not the first. His pain is not any less for it, but it does prove a point. Isolation doesn’t have to be the answer, cutting himself off from everyone he loves; he’ll drown and he’ll die. If other people manage it, then they can find a way.

Will is terrified, but if he lets him go screaming off into the night, then he’ll _still_ be terrified, but he’ll be doing it alone. If he runs, he won’t come back, and it can only get worse from there. He’ll _always_ be terrified, and he’ll end his life in fear.

If Victor does have an agenda; it’s only that Will can live his days without it.

“You needed safety, and to be far away from…everything ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ You’re scared, exhausted; in pain. You’re looking for comfort and time to p-process; but you didn’t want to be alone. Your options were limited; someone you completely trusted, _trust_ , who _knows_ you, but not from that…that world. _I_ know you. That’s why you came here, and…and _that’s_ why you have to stay.”

Through the snot and all the stumbles, it’s not a good delivery, but all in all, it’s a damn good speech.

Only logic can change what came before it. Science evolves, facts change with understanding, with every piece of new evidence disturbed. The only argument in the world that can change Will’s mind; is a fact he can’t deny to be the truth.

There’s silence, but it’s swaying him. Every minute that passes is a minute he can’t find fault. He tries, looking for the answer he wants, a reason to justify his escape. But emotions are running rampant, and when that happens, sometimes instinct just wins.

When instinct kicks in, you run immediately; there’s no room to stop and think. And Will’s wrist is cold, but; Victor is still _holding_ it.

“Come back inside with me. We’ll figure it out. It’s not a prison, if you change your mind, I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to stay.”

Will nods once.

Shutting the door and locking it, all four knees go out from under them. They both try and catch the other anyway.

He doesn’t ask, but the adrenaline shocks Will’s vocal chords back into action.

It’s only a little. The last two years have taken everything out of him. He still can’t talk about it. Right now, all Victor knows is places, aliases, how devastatingly _alone_ he felt.

They make love that night.

It just sort of happens. The issue of consent makes him hesitant. The day will never come when he doesn’t want him, but is it right? Will is desperate for intimacy, and he’s vulnerable, but he knows what he wants.

That mouth on his neck is the deciding factor. At first the pace is forecast to be frantic, but Victor has better plans than that. Absorbing Will’s manic energy, he kisses deeply, but slowly, until Will calms, and forgets all the rest.

It’s phenomenal, his hands, his tongue, they both feel the same, better even. They were always good together.

Touching every piece of skin he bares, he waits until he’s sure Will wants to do this, and not just to escape. He knows what he likes, the foreplay that turns him on the most. Flat tongue against the diaphragm, swooping up to the base of his ribs. Hands running down his sides in sync, so firm the skin goes white in their path.

With a kiss to the head, he takes Will in his mouth gently, up and down until the blood is throbbing against his tongue. The hand on the back of his neck is so firm it almost makes him suffocate. Victor used to pull Will’s hair until he cried, and though Victor loves doing it for him, no one on earth sucks cock better than Will.

There’s no kid gloves with the preparation, Victor has him squirming on the very edge. He runs himself against Will’s entrance, until he moans and whines, loving the slide of the lube against his cock.

He makes the angle deep from the beginning, and they’re both gasping after only the first few thrusts. The sweat builds between Will’s shoulder blades as Victor pins him down. They fuck hard, and agonisingly slowly. Control runs out faster than he meant it to, and he’s slamming Will into the mattress, until his spine is curved so much Victor is convinced he’s almost vertical.

Will is still fragile, so Victor fucks his brains out with the utmost care.

Disappointingly, he finishes first.

Will comes flat on his back, fingers locked onto Victor’s biceps as he pumps him with both hands. Victor decides he likes it better this way, watching Will’s face as he comes all over his own chest.

They kiss until the air chills away the sweat, foreheads pressed together, pupils massive in the dark. It’s up there with some pretty great sex. No one even needs to say it, Will looks at him like he might propose.

It’s the first real smile he’s gotten out of him.

But later, when Victor is curled and up and half smothering him; he remembers how he almost lost him. He almost feels bad as Will’s strong arms hold him together, because that’s _his_ job. He’s crying, but at the same time, he’s never felt more protected in his life. Yes, Will may be vulnerable right now, he might be weak. But Victor still feels strength in the lines of his body, even as he places kisses in his hair.

~

He walks right into a bloody soap opera.

Sherlock and some guy are having a passionate argument in an open doorway, in the middle of the night. If he were close enough, he might be able to eavesdrop, but from what Mycroft was implying, Sherlock is now some superhuman ultra-spy, so he doesn’t dare to move closer.

Passionate is exactly right. Coming here, he expected a lot of things; witnessing a break-up was not one of them. Being a genius is not necessary to get the gist; Sherlock is leaving and the other man begging him to stay.

For some reason, it only makes him angrier.

They’re involved. Begging means _very_ involved. That poor sod is hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft has him running about all over the city, the bloody homeless have gone behind his back out of worry, and Sherlock has been holed up with his _boyfriend_ the entire time.

Finding a serious relationship in three or so weeks is unlikely, for Sherlock near impossible. But after two years of being dead, straight into this?

Sherlock Holmes has clearly been home a lot longer than anyone thought. Maybe he never left at all.

There’s a few options on the table:

  1. Storm in there and scream.
  2. Storm in there and kill him.
  3. Wait until he comes out and beat the living shit out of him.
  4. Go home and drink himself into a stupor.
  5. Go to Baker Street and tell Mycroft and Molly to fuck off.
  6. Leave the country.
  7. Go back to Baker Street, tell Mycroft to go fuck himself. Then kill him. _Then_ leave the country.



Against the odds; he chooses option four.

It’s mostly because he’s tired. By the time he works up the courage to knock on the door, travel all the way to Baker Street, or further to the airport; he’ll have lost his steam. God knows London is too expensive to go to the pub and get hammered twice in one day.

At the end of the bottle, he wonders if he’s even happy to see him.

~

“I loved you Victor. More than anything.”

Touching his lips to Will’s chest, he remembers how badly he’d wanted to hear those words. At the time, his heart knew, but the insecurity didn’t. Victor never understood why he couldn’t say it. Even packing his bags, Will fought for them; saying all but what mattered the most.

Circadian rhythms were never Victor’s friend. During perhaps the most heartfelt conversation of his life, sleep takes him prematurely, and the words are lost before they even come.

~

John is drunk. Again. Properly on his way to shitfaced. He glares at the scrap of paper. The pencil marks have faded from the rain, and it’s crumpled from his fist. If he leaves it too long, it will dry out and become brittle; the address lost forever.

Bullheadedness says he might just want it to. But that’s just his pride having a laugh; he could find the place in his sleep.

Clicking the pen angrily, John loses a staring contest with a note.  Tracing over the letters carefully, he wonders what the fuck he is doing with his life. He pours another glass, and adds cheap scotch to the shopping list.

He’s becoming his father.

~

4am, and it takes a bit to rouse him. What is it with 4am continually trying to fuck with him?

Only three hours ago, he’d had the best orgasm of his life, so he’s not nearly as cranky as he normally might have been. Will, for once, is still out. Not able to resist, he leans over and tastes himself on those magical lips.

The pounding starts again. Living in this flat for six years, and only twice has this happened to him. The first was a dead man. What could it possibly be this time?

He gets halfway to the door before realising he’s butt naked.

“POLICE! Open up.”

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

Victor races back to the bed, and shakes him.

Will looks at him sleepily.

Calm under pressure is pretty much the conscription argument all over again; the panic is written all over his face.

Smile number two vanishes.

“Will,” he swallows, “I think you’d better go out the window.”

“POLICE!”

The Will he knows vanishes faster than the smile. It’s something in his eyes, something _terrifying_. Very good actors don’t just play a part, they transform, and Will has snapped into character. It’s not just focus, it’s the physicality stuff. Looking at him now you’d never have believed the despondence and exhaustion of the past week.

Muscles flex, the strength pouring off his body like water. He dresses calmly but fast. Taking Victor by the shoulders, he gives some parting advice.

“You’re terrified Victor; _use_ that. Be as you are, it’s the best defence.” He pauses, “I won’t hold it against you if you talk, that’s your decision, but avoid it if you can. Yes?”

Stunned and nodding, Victor is alarmed when he doesn’t take the window option. It’s certainly the easiest way out, but Will has different plans. He takes a second to judge structural integrity, grabs the top of the doorframe, and bloody walks up the side like fucking _Spiderman_. Both feet on the side, he supports his bodyweight with one arm, pushes open the access point to the ceiling, and disappears inside.

Impressive as it is, when the adrenaline wears off, the crash is going to kill him. Will’s still far too weak for this. He wishes he’d just run.

Adrenaline of his own gives Victor a split second of sense, and he uses a stray t-shirt to brush away the fallen dust and flakes of paint. There’s barely time to get his pants on before the place is swarming with cops.

Under ten minutes from waking and there’s a SWAT officer’s knee in his back and a gun to his head.

There’s so much shouting. Men kick down every door in his house, while he shakes on the floor, arms flat out in front of him, determined to keep his palms as still as humanly possible.

“I’m an architect, I’m just an architect, I didn’t do anything, oh my god.”

They don’t say why they’re here, but they cuff him all the same. The KGB would be proud.

They haven’t found Will yet; but he’s petrified they still might. Would they hurt him if they did? There’s a lot of guns in this room, and Will is not the type to go quietly. Victor hopes he’s on the other side of the city by now, somewhere far away where they can’t find him.

At his own dinner table, he’s interrogated. A big man with a beard wants to know why _he_ thinks they’re there. He cries and says he’s not a drug dealer, they’ve got the wrong building.

Will was right. Cowardice works; they don’t for a second believe he wouldn’t spill if he knew.

The whole incident lasts less than half an hour. He asks what they’re looking for.

A fugitive is loose in the city; and they’re authorised to shoot on sight. Victor almost throws up. But the picture they show him is wrong; a massive Maori guy with tribal tats.

After everyone leaves, he _does_ throw up, dizzy with stress. A hand in his hair makes him jerk so much he smashes his chin against the toilet bowl.

There’s a waterfall of regret in Will’s eyes. He rubs Victor’s back as he retches again. Sitting on his arse, and bumping his head again on the toilet roll, he tries to breathe.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What the _fuck_ was that!?”

“I don’t know. They shouldn’t have been able to find me.”

Will is still in disturbing mode, all calculating and brimming with potential. Victor has no doubt he would have taken out all six if they hurt him. Which to be honest, would be worse than if they had. Because Victor is honestly not sure how far he’d go.

Even now at the point of collapse.

“No, you don’t understand. They weren’t even _looking_ for you. It was someone else.”

Being on the receiving end of that gaze is freaking him out. So rather than look at it, he gets up and rinses out his mouth with whiskey.

On the sofa, Will is more himself. He’s still asking questions, but he’s gentled. Victor abruptly realises that Will overheard the entire thing. The ceiling was never an escape; it was a vantage point. Victor never thought of that.

“The Belmarsh escapee.”

“Will this can’t be coincidence.”

Stroking his 5am shadow, Will knows this. In spite of how scared Victor is, even after the shapeshift, it’s still fascinating to watch how he works. Thoughts firing though that brilliant mind at speeds that would make anyone else feel dizzy; they fuel him.

“A warning.”

The police were on the scent of another man, but they could easily have stumbled into the biggest case of their lives. It’s no accident.

Someone made that call.

This is about betrayal.

“It’s clever, I’ll give them that. A crank call raving about a dead man, no one would listen to that. Discovery in the flesh would be the only way.”

Will looks deeply unsettled. Whoever they are, this was his haven; and they still know _exactly_ where he is.

“Mycroft?” It would make sense, they’ve always played these games. Mycroft is everywhere. But Will is shaking his head.

“Not Mycroft. My brother would never sell me out. Not now.”

The silence is deep, and Will is troubled. Because if it _was_ Mycroft who did this…you can’t come back from that.

“Unless…”

Now it’s Will who looks ill. White and shaking, he’s a wild animal with fear.

“ _What have I done?”_

Whispering is never good. He’s sliding down, eyes wide, glazed into the distance. Will is going into _shock_.

Victor kneels in front of the sofa, cupping his face, kissing his hairline. The man he loves goes boneless in his arms. Until the fire comes sweeping back through him.

“No. The phone. Get me a phone!”

Frantically scrambling, Victor can’t find the damn thing. Will is pacing, muttering nonsense to himself and Victor curses reality for its lack of a control find button. The phone is in his back pocket.

Without hesitation the number is dialled and Will’s pacing only intensifies, the limp getting more and more pronounced.

“Mycroft. I missed one. You have to get to them; right now. Send everyone. I don’t care what you have to do. _Please_.”

It’s panic. Will is absolutely losing it.

Victor can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but whatever Will’s brother says, he listens. And the room goes dead silent.

Will sits heavily, a completely blank canvas. Mycroft talks at him, and he doesn’t offer a word. When he does, there’s a pronounced shake to his voice, one that Victor predicts will close him off for hours.

“I see.” The pause is so long, Victor almost assumes the conversation is done. “Yes, I…No, no I don’t. Yes. Thank you.” He hangs up.

Victor sits cautiously as Will looks but doesn’t see. One hand on his arm is all it takes, and he leans into him like that first day.

Will’s head is heavy in his lap, Victor passes the time playing softly with his hair. They don’t move for tea, they don’t move for bed, or breakfast, and Will doesn’t utter another sound.

Whatever Mycroft said calmed him down, the danger has passed and it’s time for the crash. How much more of this can he take?

But Victor was right.

Will has been betrayed.

~  
After the phone is on the table, and the bottle back in his hand, he wonders briefly if he’s made a big mistake. Then decides he doesn’t care. Sherlock is not the only one who can play mind games. Taste of his own medicine.

~  
Every night when the news comes on, she frets.

It’s a Tuesday when she nearly falls apart. The BBC say they’ve caught a fugitive. The police have to give details under the freedom of information act; which means the case is deemed within the _public interest_.

The mug shot is not of pale cheekbones and dark curls. It does get her thinking though. If a convict escaped for 3 days can gather this much attention, it can only be that much worse for Sherlock. People are going to love it.

The timing could not possibly be worse. Molly is so afraid for him.

~

A usual, no one cares what Sherlock wants.

Getting ready for bed, Sherlock gently kisses Victor’s shoulder from behind. A knock interrupts them. Since the police incident, Victor is afraid of his own front door. Jumping, and pushing Sherlock away, Victor is instantly upset.

Not for the first time, Sherlock hates himself for coming here. He may feel safe, but now; Victor does not.

_I’m so sorry._

“Will please don’t.”

Sherlock is already walking away.

“It’s alright” He says, though they both know it’s the last thing he means; “I know who it is.”

He walks slowly. All he wants in the world is to curl up with Victor, and never get up. Every word he speaks _hurts_. It’s psychosomatic he knows, but he’s had enough of words, and their meaning. The pain was supposed to have passed by now. But it’s still chasing him, and he’s still running.

Precedence dictates that he should be happy to see John, perhaps ecstatic. But these are exceptional circumstances, and he’s just not ready.

~

“John.”

It makes perfect sense. Not what he might have hoped for perhaps, but there was never going to be a right way to do this. The man before him is John, but he’s been drinking heavily; for several days. The scotch on his breath compliments the bags under his eyes.

Sherlock is _definitely_ not pleased to see him now.

“I’m not even sure I have anything to say to you.”

_Then you should not have come at all. I certainly don’t want to talk to you._

He’s nothing to say to John either.

Sherlock is so tired of people asking things of him. Once would be too much. He’s already given the world more than he can afford. He barely has the strength to breathe.

“The police raid was clever,” he muses eventually.

John scoffs; “Didn’t work though.”

“No.”

“Where were you hiding?”

“Ceiling.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.”

It’s not the same as it was. The back and forth banter. It was something he loved about them. Now it’s laced with spite, and Sherlock just wants him to go. Victor is hovering somewhere behind him out of sight, his anxiety seeping through the floorboards.

John isn’t amused either.

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you for this.”

“I understand.”

John laughs, and it’s nasty.

“You’re funny. You think you _understand_? I grieved for you! All that hell; for _this_? Playing with people’s _lives_ ; all so you could ponce around with your boyfriend on some sick twisted holiday? You damn near killed me; you selfish, arrogant, cunt!”

Sherlock is staring somewhere off to the left, teeth clenched, feeling like he’s about to be sick.

_Holiday._

Three syllables. Seven letters.

Two years, dismissed into nothing.

Sherlock will wear those scars for the rest of his life, and the power they hold over him.

He’ll see slate cobblestones every time he closes his eyes. A door will slam and he’ll hear bullets raining down. The scrape of a fork will be fingernails, clawing against steel.

A Serbian accent will make him want to die.

“It…wasn’t a holiday.” It’s a strange whisper; like a string snapping, just moments after being tuned to perfection.

“Fucking smoking on a picturesque balcony in Paris, sailing through the bloody Bahamas. Is that what you were doing? Hmm?”

 _I was_ _Running. Hiding. Bleeding. For you._ Things John needs to hear; things Sherlock won’t say.

He called it a holiday.

Sherlock thinks about hinges, remembers the cold.

Pain. Fear. Sorrow. Despair.

_Holiday._

Sherlock slaps him right across the face.

“I _said_ it wasn’t a holiday!” he’s shouting. His back aches, and he might collapse from the strain on his body. He doesn’t even care.

~

Now normally Sherlock striking him would be a wakeup call. John wouldn't have believed you if you'd said it would happen.

It fucking hurt too.

John has never seen him so upset. Upset enough that he solves the problem with his fists. Sherlock can fight exceptionally well; in the boxing ring, or on cases. Under physical threat he won’t hesitate. But it’s exceptional circumstances; only when he _has_ to.

Composure, intellect, complete verbal annihilation; _that’s_ how he works. Not meaningless violence.

Sherlock doesn’t _hit_ people.

Normally, those things would matter.

But drunk and angry are not a good combination, and no, you can’t _actually_ slap someone sober.

~

This outcome was always on the table; top three at least. But alcohol makes people more unpredictable, and Sherlock’s mind is so lost he can barely see to make sense of it.

Staying awake is a win-lose battle at the best of times. The sorrow’s there to keep him numb, but he’s too exhausted to think. Not concentrating on John’s body language was an oversight.

He barely reacts as John throws him against the doorframe. He’s too focused on the pain in his back to really feel the rest. He will later. He’s distantly aware of Victor screaming. He hopes he doesn’t do anything stupid.

John punches him hard on the left side of the face; once, twice, a pause to push Victor inside, and then another one for luck. The third rebounds his skull against steel.

John actually spits on the ground as Sherlock slides down the doorframe.

~

Again, he wakes up to someone moving him. And again he knows he can’t be dead.

_Pain._

Victor is struggling to drag him across the living room floor, desperately shouting at the paramedics on speakerphone. Sherlock is too disorientated at first to realise that’s a bad idea.

“Victor stop.”

His back is starting to bleed, just when he was almost in the clear. Victor’s panic is too loud to hear him.

“Victor, you’re _hurting_ me.”

“Shit, shit, sorry.”

He comes to crouch over him.

“I couldn’t stop him, he wouldn’t stop, he just kept hurting you; there was nothing I could do.”

Sherlock can barely breathe through the blood. He almost wishes John had killed him.

“Look at me.” Sherlock whispers; “It’s alright.”

“I _am_ looking at you, and it’s _not_ alright Will, it’s just not.”

Sherlock gently extracts the phone from his hand, hanging up before the address makes it from his lips. Victor cradles his head, fingers tight in his hair, almost as if he feels the fight draining out of him.

“I’m okay.”

Victor sobs; “I’m not.”

Sherlock loses consciousness. The black queen is falling.

 

 


	4. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags promise a happy ending to this story, and I believe it is, though you might see differently.  
> Apologies for the differences in chapter lengths, I had difficulty deciding how to break it up.

 

Three days later, hitting Sherlock turns out to have been a dumb move. Especially loudly, and _especially_ in an open doorway. Anyone walking by could have seen the entire thing.

Karma didn’t waste any time. He’s absolutely fucked.

John was so hungover he didn’t even put up much of a fight. It’s been two years, but apparently, he still has the knack for being kidnapped.

People aren’t creative with these sorts of things anymore, it’s just potluck between evil lair and/or basement, with warehouse being option number three.

They’ve gone with the warehouse. John’s happy with that, he’s always had a good track record with option three. Basements can be tricky to wriggle out of, and evil lairs usually come with an army of minions. But here there’s likely to be more than one exit; an open roller door if karma is feeling particularly generous.

It could even be the same one for all he knows, John’s done this enough times that they all start to look the same. Generic thugs to go with the standard wooden chair.

And of course; they want Sherlock bloody Holmes.

They’re trying to be tough, but John is in a snarky mood today; way too pissed off to be intimidated.

“You’ve just watched me doing my best to bash his face in; you think he gives a flying _fuck_ where I am?”

“Yes,” says Ring Leader Dave, “He’s gone to great lengths to ensure your continued survival.”

The nicknames are John’s favourite part. He and Sherlock sometimes used to get competitive over who could come up with the best ones. Kind of twisted yeah, but it made for a good laugh afterwards.

They’re all pretty well armed, but right now Goons 1 to 4 are standing around in an empty warehouse doing shit all. If you ask him, four seems a little excessive. Even Goon 2 is starting to look bored. Goon 3 yawns behind him. That said, their commitment to this whole threatening semi-circle thing is impressive.

“Listen mate, it’s been three hours. If some shit knocked you out and pissed off, would you be checking to see if he’s tucked up in bed? I sure wouldn’t.”

Predictably, Goon 2 hits him.

“See, now you’re just proving my point. Say hi to your missus for me, let her know I’ll be skipping tea, yeah?”

Another hour passes by much the same. It’s exhausting.

Four fucking hours. John’s just glad he went to the loo before they snatched him.

John has shut up now, but they’re starting to grumble. Boss Man Dave is getting real pissed off. He tries getting in John’s face again.

“Where the fuck is he?!”

“I fucking told you! He’s not-” Goon number 3 interrupts him.

“Boss.”

Sherlock has just walked through the door, looking _exactly_ like he’s on his way to the supermarket.

It’s different. Usually Sherlock likes the dramatics of a good entrance. He can be damn terrifying when he wants to. Sure, sometimes he starts with aloof or bored, but the last few times he’d gone right ahead with unstoppable rage.

Sherlock is not even angry. He’s projecting a whole lot of nothing.

They do the whole booming his name out thing, start with a big of taunting and Sherlock says _not.one.word._ Just keeps coming at them calmly, not even a change of pace.

The knives come out; and Sherlock looks like he could not give less of a fuck about any of it.

The others, especially Boss Man Dave, he doesn’t even look at. Going up to Goon 2 as if to shake his hand; _Sherlock snaps his fucking_ _neck_. Kills him on the spot with no warning. Because Goon 2 had been the only man to hurt him, and somehow; Sherlock knew.

The body hits the floor. Sherlock turns to Terrified Boss Man Dave; and he’s still not angry.

All hell breaks loose; out come the guns, everyone shouting and waving them around. The Goons are shitting themselves; one nervous finger, and they’re both dead. John is practically shitting himself too; this situation has gone beyond crazy.

He broke a man’s neck for practically no reason. Sherlock _can_ hit people, but the last resort argument was something John always believed. This is a man who threw someone from a window. The CIA bastard was seriously injured; but he wasn’t _dead_.

John is more afraid of Sherlock now than the guns. The Sherlock he knew was no murderer

“Shit! What the fuck!? Fuck, Christ, you fucking killed him! You’re a cop, you can’t _do_ that shit!”

“I’m not a cop.” It’s a mild correction, but somehow Sherlock manages to make it a threat.

“We’re gonna fuck you up. You’re dead, you hear me? Ain’t no walking out of this.”

The gun points directly at Sherlock’s face; and it’s absolutely blank.

“I already am.”

John feels the barrel hard against his temple. Now Sherlock has killed him too.

“Oh yeah? I’ll blow his fucking brains out; ain’t that what you came to see?”

Boss Man Dave is cackling, because he’s getting exactly what he wanted. He grabs John by the hair and shakes him comically, gun digging in harder.

“You seem to have a very short memory.”

Hitting John didn’t work out all that well for Goon 2.

John could believe the sociopath shit right now; no one he’s ever known could be this cold.

Goon 4 is done here; has had more than enough of this shit. Walking out without a second glance, he heads for the exit furthest away; not wanting to walk past a psychopath who, even unarmed, could probably kill them all anyway.

Boss Man arranges to put a hit out on him with a disturbed looking Goon 3.

“You think you’re a big hard man? You got no idea what you’re fucking dealing with.” He spits at John’s feet.

No Reaction.

“You stole my son’s life! Sixteen-year-old kid makes a stupid mistake and now he’s got 15 years in Belmarsh, cause of you!”

One step forward and Boss Man is screaming abuse and pulling John’s hair. There’s something in Sherlock’s eyes that John’s never seen in a civilian. Sherlock makes eye contact with Goons 1 and 3, stepping over the body at his feet with disinterest.

“You’re second, and you will be third.” It’s a simple statement; no anger, no boredom. It’s not even a threat; it’s a heads up. Sherlock telling them _exactly_ what will happen next.

Goon 3 has been chosen strategically as the first to die; identified as the weakest link.

Threats are usually transparent, but when you kill a man in cold blood, people generally start to pay attention. First and final; there will be no second chances. John silently begs them to listen.

Oh, they’re stupid as fuck, but absolutely do not want to die. That’s the problem with minions; there’s only so much you’ll do for money. Sometimes; it just ain’t worth it. Staring at each other, John knows it’s no decision.

Unsurprisingly Goon 3 folds first. Safety on; he’s bolting.

“Sorry boss,” Goon 1 quickly follows.

Boss Man is _not_ happy; he actually takes the gun away from John and starts shooting at his own people, but by now they’re way out of range. Screaming that they’re dead men does nothing; he can’t put out the hit if Sherlock gets to him first.

Which he has.

Boss Man turns around and Sherlock is right there, hand tight around barrel of Dave’s gun; holding the weapon pointed six inches from his chest. Ring Leader Dave tries to pull the trigger, and is bested by slight of hand. There was no bullet chambered, and Sherlock has flicked on the safety.

Still Sherlock says nothing.

Following the example of his minions, he goes to run; but Sherlock has him by the throat, so tight he can’t possibly pull away without asphyxiating himself. Sherlock is drawing it out; just staring at him, so close he can probably taste the smoke on his breath.

“Sherlock stop.”

He never moves his head, but his eyes flick to John.

“Look at yourself. This isn’t you.”

Boss Man tries to get away, starts choking, and quickly gives up. The grip on his throat has not slipped a millimetre.

Sherlock never replies.

“Do you really want him dead?” John pleads with him; “Is all this,” he gestures around them, “Is this worth a death sentence?”

Staring at Sherlock, he prays that he won’t do it. The two years he can forgive, Goon 2 is something he will struggle with for a very long time; but he’s not sure he can ever look at him the same if he does this now.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, terrified of what he might say, “Will you enjoy killing him?”

Sherlock doesn’t break eye contact for a millisecond. He shoots the man in the right knee cap without even looking. John almost throws up at the sound. Two seconds ago, the gun was at his chest. Sherlock’s hand moved so fast he was sure he’d killed him.

So close to him, the bullet could have just as easily hit his own leg. Sherlock’s aim is frightening. But he lets go of his throat while Dave screams in pain and rolls around on the floor.

“Never.”

John realises he’s crying, but worse, as Sherlock takes a step forward to untie him; John flinches. Sherlock stops dead, and his face is no longer calm; he looks exhausted. He almost falls over. Sitting down, back against a crate; Sherlock doesn’t touch him.

For someone who talks so much, throughout everything, Sherlock has said as little as possible.

“If I apologise, will that ever be enough?”

Sorrow is the only word that describes him right now. He’s lost himself, and he knows it. For the first time, John is worried about Sherlock. What the fuck did this to him?

Sherlock has come home from a war. John knows it in his bones.

Will it be enough? He’s in too much shock to answer the question.

Sherlock is looking everywhere but John. He even checks his bloody watch.

“Mycroft’s people will be here soon to clean up. They’ll untie you.”

Great, now he’s going to fuck off.

“You got somewhere better to be?”

Just because they’re talking like adults for once, doesn’t mean John isn’t monumentally pissed off. He’s tied to a chair and Sherlock is going to leave him in an empty warehouse. It’s difficult to really disturb John, but he’s…unsettled by Sherlock right now, and just a tiny bit afraid.

He reckons he’d let Sherlock touch him now if he tried again, but Sherlock uncharacteristically respects his wishes. Though it probably hurts.

“No.” He doesn’t move to get up.

Well it’s nice to know he’s not going to sit here forever.

“Mycroft’s people,” John mutters. Yes, he is definitely still angry. “No consequences, right?”

He sounds as bitter as he feels.

Sherlock just purses his lips.

You’d think it was _him_ tied to the chair from how badly he doesn’t want to have this conversation. But he won’t leave him a sitting duck. John beat the crap out of him; and Sherlock’s still here.

“Why’d you come for me?”

Sherlock _shrugs_.

He looks at Sherlock, who still won’t meet his gaze. His cheek and chin are all kinds of fucked up; eye so black and swollen it’s a miracle he can see out of it. The character you think is dead who walks out of the dark in an action film and saves the day right at the very last second. It’s exactly what he looked like; stepping into the warehouse, with more dignity than John could ever have.

Irritatingly, it’s exactly what he is.

“I broke your face.”

“Yes.”

John says nothing because he wants Sherlock to have deserved it. The majority of people would agree. But John’s heard his mother dismiss it too many times for it to sit right.

He really is becoming his father. He promised himself he never would.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock doesn’t _sound_ sorry.

_If I apologise, will that ever be enough?_

“That’s _it_? That’s all you have to say?”

Until now, John thought that maybe his forgiveness was something that actually _mattered_ to Sherlock. Important enough to at least make an effort. But again; it’s the empty promises of someone who doesn’t give a damn. At least his father’s lies were creative.

Sherlock looks at him with his battered face and eyes that are all wrong.

“Yes.”

It’s the fucking sympathy play. Manipulative bastard is at it again. Minutes ago, he was the super anti-hero; slaying dragons, all lithe muscles and power. Now he’s playing the broken victim; the sweetest sadness in his eyes. He wants John to save him, does he? Well this time he’s going down alone.

“And I’m just supposed to forgive you? While you don’t even bother to try? Just ‘ _sorry_?!’ That’s the best you can do? Two years of my life!”

Sherlock closes his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“That’s…not what I came here for.”

If John could move, he’d probably kill him. Sherlock doesn’t want his forgiveness. Those two years mean nothing to him. He knows exactly what he did, what John went through.

And Sherlock doesn’t care.

“Then why, _the fuck,_ are you here?!”

Sherlock’s eyes are cold as he rises to his feet. John swallows heavily. Their feet are almost touching as Sherlock stares down at him.

“For your life.”

This time, the flinch is pronounced. The knife comes out, and for more than a second, John actually thinks that Sherlock means to hurt him.

 _For your_ life _._

The zip-ties are cut, and John feels barely a thing. Sherlock doesn’t so much as let them dig into the skin, and he does it without ever touching John.

Sherlock doesn’t wait for him to stand; he leaves without ever looking back.

~

He sits down, an alley, a gutter somewhere, he doesn’t know. Staring at the black queen in his hands; Sherlock thinks of slate cobble stones. Thinks of the lie _._

 _They’re more uncomfortable than concrete_.

~

There’s people everywhere, shouting at him to get down. John gets the fuck down.

He’s not afraid as more people point guns at him; just miserable and confused. Why does he feel like it’s him who’s in the wrong?

Everyone is shouting and carrying on. Someone yells man down. Paramedics are called, and Goon 2 is pronounced dead. Mycroft’s people aren’t doctors, but they can make any damn decision they like. They’re still screaming at John even though he doesn’t move.

Mycroft never shows up.

His ID is checked. Everything stops, guns are lowered. They leave him to walk home.

~

Will could be dead for all he knows.

One call from Amsterdam was all it took, and Will was off like a rocket. Since when does he bow to Mycroft? He didn’t say where he was going; there was no doubt Victor would follow.

Victor is an idiot, because while he knows Will can handle himself; he still would have tried to save him. Stumbling into a firefight, getting himself shot.

Worst case scenarios are kind of his thing. His psychologist thinks he should go on anti-anxiety meds. They’d definitely help, he just never really got around to it.

Guns might not be involved, knives are probably not present, bombs would be ridiculous. But this is Will. Will _is_ ridiculous; and so is his life. Victor’s imagination goes wild.

Passing the time consists of him worrying on the couch for two and a half hours. The doorknob rattles and keys jingle. There’s only one set of keys to the flat, and he’s looking right at them.

Will made a copy; that’s the best possible explanation. Victor’s mother died when he was a child, and it’s been years since his father killed himself. No friend of his would break into his flat. Or have another key cut. _Somehow_.

It’s seven in the morning, and Will stumbles through the door. To anyone else he’d look drunk, but Will barely drinks, and Victor has seen him high on pretty much everything. That’s not his intoxicated walk. That’s exhaustion. That’s ‘the world is too much and I’m fucking drowning.’

Kicking the door shut, he somehow manages to catch Will at the same time. It’ been years since he’s looked after a Will high off his face, so he’s pretty impressed by how smooth that was.

Sobriety intact, Will still looks like shit. Victor half fireman-carries him to the bed.

~

It’s somehow worse.

It’s back to not talking, like a quota has been filled, and there’s no room for more.

Will’s sleeping has also slipped. He makes noises, but he never speaks. Victor would hold him all night; every night. Now he can’t even touch him; they sleep on opposite sides of the bed, a pillow in-between to keep Victor safe.

Protective instincts take over both of them. Victor can actually _sense_ when Will is awake. Will senses _everything_.

They watch each other over the buffer. Victor reaches out, and cups a bruised cheek.

“I’m right here.”

But nothing can stop the sorrow.

Victor lies awake from dusk until dawn, and never lets go of Will’s hand.

Victor knows who is responsible for this.

~

Groceries, then coffee with a friend. It’s a lie of course, which is why he waits until Will is in the shower, and leaves a note. There’s no fooling him.

No doubt he’ll forget to buy the groceries, or drink any coffee. He won’t smell like Italian roast, and they won’t have tomato paste for the pasta. He’s planned it all out; but Victor has a terrible memory for schemes.

Eight times on the tube, he asks himself what the fuck he’s doing. Twice usually works. This time, even eight aren’t enough to stop him. Will gives him a bravery he doesn’t have.

It’s a famous address. It still takes Victor ages to find it. He balks again on the threshold. Will is going to be _very_ angry with him. He’s crossing a line; bridging two worlds that we made to stay separate. It’s not noble; it’s monumentally stupid.

He hopes Will can forgive him.

She’s pretty, but not the old lady he was expecting. It occurs to him that he’s made a mistake; a fucking idiotic one. John Watson doesn’t even _live_ here.

“Um, hello?”

“I’m a postman.”

Shit. He’s a fucking train wreck. She stares at him like he’s insane.

“You’re not a postman. Where’s your uniform? The letters?”

“No...I, no, I’m really not. Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Time to bolt, oh shit, he hopes Will never finds out about this. Oh, but he will. Turning around, he makes it down two of the three steps before she calls him back. Time to freak out.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re not a postman, so who are you?”

Not angry, and unlikely to call the police; she has a kind voice. Pretending he’s able to breathe, he turns around and climbs guiltily back up to the step.

He can barely look her in the eye. But she’s not suspicious, she’s _smiling_. Probably because he’s the least threatening person on the face of the planet.

“Victor,” he mumbles.

“Hi Victor, I’m Molly.”

Thankfully, she has absolutely no idea who he is.

“So, since the mail was delivered two hours ago, what can I help you with?”

“Yeah, sorry, I panicked.”

She laughs, “Story of my life.”

“Okay, so I was actually looking for Dr Watson, but uh, he doesn’t live here so…nice to meet you?”

Her eyebrows fly up.

“Well actually, you’re in luck. He moved back in yesterday! I think he’s still unpacking. It’s just up the stairs.”

Considering he’d finally talked himself _out_ of the idea. That…is the absolute last thing he wanted to hear. Now he _has_ to go through with it. She’s waiting expectantly, frowning at his hesitance.

“It’s alright, he doesn’t bite.”

How wrong she is.

“Thanks.”

~

Cardboard boxes are a menace. Plastic was something he really should have considered.

John would make an awful cashier; once box is a monster, all the light things in the other three, and he’s pretty sure his pillow must have fallen on the floor at some point.

He gives up, and goes to make a cup of tea. The pantry and the fridge haven’t been this empty since that time some suspiciously green experiment decided to blow up; it was everywhere. 100% casualties.

Molly will have some. He grabs the mug and turns to the stairs.

There’s someone standing in the doorway.

John is terrible with faces, especially when he’s drinking. He’s sure he’s seen him before, but can’t quite place it.

“Uh, can I help you?”

“No.”

This dude is Pissed. Off.

Well John has had one hell of a morning. Cardboard boxes fight back; he has cuts all over his hands, and they’re sticky from the excessive amount of tape that felt like a good idea at the time. Some stranger shouting at him is not what he signed up for.

“You’ve done nothing but hurt.”

“Look mate, it’s been a long week, so your imaginary beef is going to have to wait. Shut the door on your way out, yeah?

Dude only holds himself higher and puffs out his chest. He’s a broad guy, and he’s got a good few inches on John, but he doesn’t have a lot of muscle to him. He’s no fighter, so what the hell does he think he’s doing riling people up. Someone might hit him.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

John scoffs. How many people has he heard say that to Sherlock? Too many to count. Usually they tried to kill him after. But the bastard is still fucking breathing.

“No, I bloody don’t, so get the fuck out of my flat.”

“You hit me.”

John rolls his eyes. Honestly, he’s had his fair number of scraps, picked a couple himself. There’s more than a few pubs where he wouldn’t be welcome.

“Still don’t remember you. Was I drunk?

“Oh yes.”

He even talks like Sherlock. Fancy prick.

“Look Public School, I don’t give a shit. You’d better go or I’ll help you. Understand?”

His hand still hurts from the other night, but he’ll be happy to use it again if he has to. He must be losing his touch, ‘cause the guy walks right into the damn flat, and looks around like he’s in a fucking zoo.

“Victor Trevor. Will’s lover.”

Will is clearly dead or sick or whatever, and this little shit has decided it’s all John’s fault. John takes a step forward, more than ready to slap the dickhead across the face. Victor Trevor takes a larger step. Close enough that John could hurt him.

“Still not ringing any fucking bells.”

Victor looks cross, then he does a pretty good imitation of a cold stare he knows only too well.

“I suppose not. He changed his name a while back, goes by his middle name.” Victor leans down to whisper in his ear.

“ _Sherlock_.”

He pulls back, and John remembers him now. When he was beating Sherlock to a pulp; Victor tried to defend him. John lashed out to get him out of the way. He just wasn’t strong enough to save him.

Sherlock’s _lover_.

It distracts him enough that he doesn’t see the fist until it collides with his nose.

Not strong enough to save Sherlock, but not weak either. John’s nose is broken.

“ _Fuck_.”

They stare at each other, both waiting for John to snap, to make Victor’s face match Sherlock’s. He expects to lose it. But there’s been more than enough violence already. Hitting Sherlock the first time he can almost justify. The other two; he absolutely can’t.

You can’t really blame Victor for wanting to break John’s nose.

In his place, having seen the man who did that to Sherlock; John wouldn’t have stopped at one.

John grabs paper towels from the lightest box, holds it to his face, and sits the fuck down. Victor is still braced, looking like a man with a death sentence. This man came here knowing he’d get hurt, but he did it anyway. For Sherlock.

“I don’t have tea, but I can offer you a scotch.”

Victor doesn’t sit, and he doesn’t take the drink.

“So you can tell me _your_ version of the story? I was there.”

John looks at him honestly.

“No. There’s no excuse.”

“No. There isn’t.”

Victor looks around for his coat, realises he’s still wearing it, and turns his back on John.

 “How is he?”

The question surprises Victor, and he stops in his tracks.

A question John should have asked days ago.

It’s been a day of denial; you know damn well what you’ve done is wrong, you’re just not big enough to admit it.  Hating Sherlock is harder than it looks, and John’s denial died hours ago.

Sherlock may not, but John can’t help it. He _cares_.

“You have no right to ask me that.”

John never thought of it that way. But he’s right. Trust is earnt. He’s not that person for Sherlock anymore; he doesn’t get to know. And John hates him for it.

“I want to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to see you. Please respect that.”

With that; John is alone.

Alone with the guilt.

~

Respectful of a lot of things, John’s an army man through and through. He also used to think he was a pretty decent bloke. A lot can change in two years.

Sherlock is _alive_. The best friend he grieved for. Sherlock with his empty eyes and silence. The man hiding from his closest friends. The man John beat for _breathing_.

John doesn’t understand how it got so out of control. He _needs_ to understand.

~

Sherlock answers the door.

He looks John up and down, steps out, and closes it behind him.

All he does is wait.

This time, John has a _lot_ to say to him. So much it’s difficult to know where to start.

“If I apologise…will that ever be enough?”

Sherlock purses his lips.

It has a shared weight. Now they’ve both said it; both done so much damage. It might take a lot of work to fix it; the conversation is so long it could take _weeks_ to unravel. John will shout, slam doors, and probably throw a bunch of things; but Sherlock will _too_.

There’s so many things they have to talk about, so many things Sherlock has to explain.

John has so much to apologise for.

But he should have used his _own_ words.

Sherlock opens his mouth.

And the answer is no.


End file.
